


The Osford City Murders

by Sarcasticles



Series: Professor Margot Investigates [2]
Category: Daughter of the Lilies (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery, Professor Margot: Wizard Detective, Thriller, and also Dash, he's here too - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcasticles/pseuds/Sarcasticles
Summary: Twenty years ago a plague swept through the city of Osford, and with it a deadly killer, driving a deep wedge between the city's mages and those incapable of magic. Now, more than two decades later, a dormant hatred begins to stir, and once again mages find themselves targeted by a deadly force they don't understand.Only this time, Margot is one of them, and she has no intention of going down without a fight.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...new project! If anyone happens to be reading this before The Murder of Arthur Wright I'd strongly suggest going back and reading that first. This story isn't going anywhere, and will contain spoilers from the previous fic. 
> 
> For those of you who *have* read The Murder of Arthur Wright, welcome back! I hope to use what I learned there and apply it to this fic. A few warnings, however, The Osford City Murders is going to be a bit darker in tone. I'm not all that good at tagging for this sort of thing, so consider yourself warned that in this fic there will be Unpleasantness. Nothing, I hope, that strays from the T rating, but it's going to be a departure from the tone I typically take with my DotL works. I think this prologue is probably a good indicator of how intense things might get, so feel free to use it as a barometer to see if this fic's for you,
> 
> This might be the most ambitious project I've ever tackled in terms of themes and character, and I'm still doing research in order to do them justice. I am, however, human and make mistakes, and am open to criticism when constructive and fair.
> 
> Lastly, this story has taken a drastic turn from how I originally envisioned it, and while I now feel confident in the direction I'm going, not all of the details are hammered out. Updates may be slow as I weave writing and plotting in with real life responsibilities.

The Red Death had finally passed, and the city was celebrating.

Mr. Edwin Nightingale propped his head on a hand and listened to it through his open window. From the second story of his modest home it was difficult to discern more than the indistinct chatter as people went about their daily business, but if he listened hard and long enough a few scraps of information came through.

_“Hurry up, Jonas!”_

_“Fresh bread for sale! Fresh bread!”_

_“I hear there will be fireworks!”_

_“Five more dead just this morning…”_

Frowning slightly, Edwin rose to his feet and shut the window. He would miss the breeze, but not the gossip. He already knew of the deaths. Everyone who looked at the day’s paper did. Treatment had come too late for those sorry souls, caught in the throes of the Red Death’s unnatural resistance to magical treatment.

The paper spoke of other things as well. Discontent rippled among the lower classes; many spoke out against the mayor’s decision to continue with the yearly harvest festival while the city’s poorest quarter remained under quarantine. The Council of Mages was under fire for their failure to enforce their own guidelines, and anti-magic sentiment was at its highest since Blaine the Conquered singlehandedly lost Osford’s rights and privileges as an independent city-state nearly two centuries previous.

And, most worrying of all, another mage was dead. Murdered in such a way that rendered traditional investigative techniques useless. He joined six others, each found within the last two months alone.

Authorities did what they could, but the timing could not have been worse. Edwin rubbed his temples, staring helplessly at the reports scattered in front of him. He was a journalist, not a criminal investigator. His beat was the political machinations of the Council, not the sordid underbelly of Rend River Way, where four of the bodies had been found within a stone’s throw of the quarantine.

The city’s mages were in danger. The madman responsible for the murders was only growing bolder while the frustrated, the angry, and the afraid praised him as a hero. There where whispers of a curfew being debated among the Council, but so far nothing had come of it. The murders were all mundane in nature, and many among the city’s top governing body failed to grasp the seriousness of the situation. They always did when magic wasn’t involved.

And, while the city sat poised on the edge of revolt, the people were celebrating.

“Dad! Dad look, I finally did it!”

Edwin hurried to stuff his reports in his desk as his daughter ran into his office, stocking feet sliding on the polished wooden floor. She came to an uneven stop, a grin threatening to split her face in two, and held up a glowing hand.

Five small circles of light spun over her upturned palm, each a different color. Edwin—who wasn’t a mage and had no idea the significance of this accomplishment, other than it had kept her occupied for more than an hour—nodded solemnly. “Very impressive. Now can you do it with your other hand?”

“Of course!”

Edwin cocked an eyebrow. “Simultaneously?”

At this she paused, and after careful consideration nodded. Just shy of ten, Eliza Nightingale often impressed her father with her magical ability. As she raised both hands, nose crinkling with intense concentration, Edwin feared what might happen to her if he and the investigative team assigned to the Rend River cases failed to stop the killer in time.

Those fears faded into wonder as one by one five additional lights sprung into Eliza’s off hand, joining the others in a dizzying array of color. She was only able to manage such a feat for a few seconds, and the effort left her breathless.

“I can do it again,” she insisted.

“Not now, darling,” Edwin said. He took her hands in his and brought her close, clutching her tighter than he was wont. “Remember what your mother says. Don’t overexert yourself.”

“When is she coming home?” Eliza asked. “I thought you said the plague was gone.”

“Not gone, just…more under control,” Edwin said.

“When she gets back can I go outside again?”

“We’ll see, darling. We’ll see.”

* * *

Edwin approached his lunch with the mechanical detachment of someone who knew they had to eat but had no desire to do so. He half-listened to his daughter’s idle chatter, his thoughts drifting back to the problem of the murders. Chief Inspector Briggs informed him earlier in the day that the scene had been scoured of evidence, leaving nothing behind for his mages to trace. The crisis surrounding the Red Death left them without the manpower needed to track down what few leads they had. There was little optimism that they would catch the killer anytime soon.

They had only one avenue left open to them, but there was no guarantee it would work, and Edwin had no idea how he’d go about convincing the authorities to even try.

After several moments Edwin realized Eliza had stopped talking. He forced another bite of food and tried to pretend that everything was normal, but if Eliza’s frown was any indication he was not successful. Edwin was constantly surprised by how much she noticed. He never realized how much children picked up on before he had one of his own.

He was saved from saying anything by the timely arrival of the maid. The normally prim and proper woman burst into the dining room red and flustered. Edwin rose to his feet, certain that Briggs had come to deliver more terrible news, before noticing her eyes were alight with excitement.

“Mrs. Nightingale has returned!”

Edwin shared a look with his daughter before they both ran to the front door. Eliza was quicker, and she made it to the entranceway a second before her father. She let out a peal of laughter and launched herself into her mother’s arms.

It took a small effort of will for Edwin not to do the same, and he might have anyway if he hadn’t thought the effort might knock her to the ground. Bryony Nightingale was a tall, willowy woman who always gave the impression of being more fragile than she actually was, and four weeks serving the plague-stricken had whittled her into a shadow of her former self. The uniform of her Order hung from her shoulders more loosely than Edwin remembered, her cheekbones more prominent. When she looked up to greet him, Edwin saw that the whites of her eyes were dyed red.

“Bryony…” he breathed.

“Hello, love. It’s good to be home.”

A third plate was hastily added to the table and it was made sure that Bryony had a heaping portion of everything. She picked at her food before pushing it away in favor of a cup of strong tea. Her short blonde hair was damp and her skin had the pink glow of someone recently scrubbed. Edwin wondered if she came directly from the quarantine.

Eliza was more animated than Edwin had seen in weeks, and she wasted no time showing off her new trick. She managed her ten little lights for half a minute this time, with Edwin having to swallow his tongue not to warn against overexertion. Bryony always teased that he was overcautious when it came to magic.

“That’s very good,” Bryony said. “I hope you’ve been attacking all your lessons with the same ferocity.”

“There’s nothing else to do,” Eliza whined. “Dad won’t let me go out, not even for the festival. I’m gonna be the only one to miss the fireworks.”

Bryony looked at Edwin quizzically. “Is that so?”

“We can talk about it later. You look like you’re about ready to fall asleep in your food.”

“I am not,” Bryony said impertinently. The effect was undercut by a jaw-popping yawn, and Eliza giggled.

“I am, perhaps, a little tired,” she admitted. She set down the remains of her tea before standing in a long, catlike stretch. “I’ll need a nap if we’re to go to out tonight.”

“Really?!”

“Bryony, no,” Edwin said at the same time. “It’s not safe—“

“I have spent a month in that godsforsaken pit. Edwin, I need…I need to see something cheerful.”

Edwin had no response as she pushed in her chair, reached to give their daughter a bone-crushing hug, and retired to their bedroom. A terrible silence fell over the dining room, only broken when Eliza asked, “Is Mom okay? What’s wrong with her eyes? Does that mean she has the Red Death?”

“No, Eliza. They wouldn’t have let her come home if they thought she had caught it. Remember, the Death is a pox. It gives you spots, not…whatever that is.”

“So you don’t know either?” Eliza asked.

“No, but I intend to find out.”

* * *

Bryony lay curled on the edge of the bed. For a moment Edwin thought she had fallen asleep without changing out of her scapular or pulling back the sheets. The simple leather belt where she kept her athame had been thrown haphazardly on the floor. Edwin stepped over it carefully before crawling into the bed next to his wife.

“I didn’t expect you back until next week at least."

“Replacements finally arrived from across the river. They didn’t need me anymore,” Bryony said. Away from Eliza she allowed the tiredness to seep into her voice. “I had nothing left to give.”

“Then you should _rest,_ not go gallivanting around the city.”

“It’s not good to be cooped up inside,” Bryony murmured. Edwin felt a tear that dripped off the end of her nose, and she took a deep, shaking breath.

Edwin held his wife close. “I missed you stealing all of the covers.”

“It wasn’t the same trying to sleep without your dreadful snoring.”

Edwin almost smiled. “How did you hurt your eyes? Truly?”

“It’s just a burst vessel, like when you sneeze too hard. I got them from time to time as an apprentice. In a few weeks you won’t even be able to tell.”

“Can’t you heal it?” Edwin asked. “Eliza thought you were ill, and she’ll not be the only one.”

“Normally, yes. But it’s not wise for me to use any magic at the moment, not even for something as small as this.”

Edwin’s heart pounded in his chest. “What happened?”  

“You don’t want to know,” Bryony said flatly. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and if I’m lucky I never will again.”

“Was it that much worse than the cholera outbreak two years ago?” Edwin asked.

More tears spilled down her face. Edwin didn’t know the words to comfort her, so he held her instead, wrapping his arms around her as if he could shield her from the hurt and the pain. Bryony had an uncommon compassion that stretched to world’s most wretched creatures, a gift that had served her well as a healer. But empathy could be a two-edged sword, and it was cutting her deeply now.

“There were so many sick. If we found them early enough we could treat the Red Death like any other illness, but if we didn’t then they went to the Order. Blood magic _worked_ , better than anything else, but there weren’t enough of us. W-We had to choose who to treat and who to let go.”

“Bryony…”

“There was a girl about Eliza’s age. We found her in a tenement house surrounded by the dead, and the spots had already reached her neck. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just let her die.”

Edwin was afraid to ask what happened as his wife paused to wipe her eyes. She nuzzled her head into the crook of his arm, exhaustion etched in every line of her face. There were creases that Edwin hadn’t remembered being present a month ago. Her eyes fluttered closed.

“I used the last of my strength on that girl. I’ve got nothing left, so they sent me home.”

“You won’t have to go back, will you?”

“I don’t know. The worst is almost assuredly over, but the Death is so different than anything we’ve ever seen before,” Bryony said. “I…I don’t know if I could stand it, but if I’m called how can I refuse?

“You said there were replacements,” Edwin said.

“Traditional healers, Edwin. Not blood mages.”

An unhappy silence filled the room. It was selfish of him, but Edwin didn’t want her to go back, both for his sake and hers. She had done her part and more. Let someone else go instead.

But in his heart of hearts Edwin knew just as well as she did that Bryony would return once she regathered her strength. No matter how much she might want to refuse, her duty toward her Order, her city, and her profession demanded that she go back as soon as she was able, and there was nothing Edwin could do to stop her. For a moment he felt like his tears would join his wife’s, but he swallowed them back. For once _he_ was the one comforting _her_. He couldn’t fall to pieces now.

“I take it you haven’t found your murderer?” Bryony said. “Is that why you’re keeping Eliza locked up inside?”

“Another dead just last night,” Edwin said bitterly. “I was meaning to talk to you about it anyway. I've had an idea, and I think perhaps your people could be of great help.”

Briefly he explained the particularities of the case, as well as the tricks and cleverness the culprit used to cover his tracks. Bryony listened despite her exhaustion, and once he finished nodded slowly.

“It’s not my area of expertise, but the idea has merit. I’ll present it to the Order as soon as I can.” She rolled over so she could face him properly. “But that’s no reason to keep your daughter trapped in her own home. All the victims have been found far away from here, and unsavory characters besides. It sounds to me like vigilante justice gone too far, not some crusade against the city’s mages.”

“The man found last night was a Fairchild.”

“Related to the Counselor?” Bryony asked.

“A cousin,” Edwin said. “And I’m not worried about the murderer so much as the feelings he’s inspiring. Just last week someone tried to throw a Molotov cocktail at the Department of Magical Licensing and Certification. Protective spells kept it from burning, but the intent was there. The people feel a need to blame the Death on _something_ , and mages are an easy target.”

“We can’t let Eliza live in fear just because she knows a little magic,” Bryony said. “And we can’t hide what she from the outside world. She’s a smart girl, and boredom is dangerous at her age. I’m surprised she hasn’t started making her own trouble yet.”

“Oh, I assure you she has,” Edwin said.

Bryony smiled. “There has to be a balance between caution and living life. It won’t hurt anything to go out for a few hours before dark sets in. We know the streets that are safe, and Eliza can have her fun. We can watch the fireworks from the roof together, just like we did when she was small.”

Edwin protests turned to ash on his tongue. He could hear the truth in what she was saying, but she had spent the last four weeks behind the walls of the quarantine. She didn’t see what he saw, or hear what he heard.

“If you wake up in time we’ll go. Together, as a family,” Edwin promised. “But you need _rest_. You look worn to a shadow.”

“I feel like a shadow,” Bryony murmured. She rolled back to her side and closed her eyes. Edwin stayed with her until he was certain she was asleep, before carefully sliding his arm out from under her.

He needn’t have bothered. Bryony didn’t stir as Edwin shook the feeling back into his fingers, dead to the world. Tired as she was, he doubted a stampede of elephants would have woken her. Quietly he found a spare blanket and draped it over her shoulders before creeping out of the room.

* * *

Eliza passed the hours sitting in front of the old cuckoo clock, quivering with repressed energy as she watched the seconds tick past. Dark came early in autumntime, and Edwin had made clear the terms for going out to the harvest festival. Edwin wouldn’t have put it past her to wake her mother up herself, so he brought out a stack of parchment to the kitchen table. He kept half an eye on her as he worked at drafting his next column for the paper. A runner was sent to Inspector Briggs informing him of Bryony’s promise. After that, all he could do was wait.

Edwin knew little about his wife’s obscure branch of magic, but it didn’t take a scholar to know that four weeks of intensive healing took its toll on her body. He didn’t expect Bryony to wake before the promised deadline. He hoped she wouldn’t wake until the morning.

So it was a surprise to both father and daughter when Bryony stumbled out of the bedroom just past four in the afternoon. She sat heavily at the table and asked, “Is there any tea?”

There wasn’t, but Edwin sent for the maid to put a kettle on. Bryony rubbed bleary eyes, the red of the sclera contrasting sharply with the stormy blue-green of her irises. They were the sort of eyes Edwin would have expected to see on a demon in a play. They didn’t fit with her sleep-tousled hair or the pillow creases on her face.

“Mom, are you sure you’re okay?” Eliza asked. She twisted her hands into knots, and with enormous effort said, “We…we don’t have to go today if you’re tired.”

“I slept for fourteen hours yesterday. I’m not going to keel over anytime soon.” Bryony carded her long fingers through Eliza’s hair. “There will be plenty of time for rest when I’m dead. Now get ready. We’ll leave once I get changed.”

With a whoop of excitement Eliza tore off towards her bedroom. The tea arrived and was gratefully accepted, Bryony cradling the cup like a child would a favored toy. A few sips later she almost looked alive again.

“I know what you’re going to say, and don’t,” Bryony said, cutting Edwin off before he had a chance to speak. “A little fun at the fair isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“ _Fourteen hours?”_

She nodded. “It’s the only thing that kept me from coming home.”

Bryony downed the rest of her tea in three large gulps and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ve missed you all so much, but this fretting will get you nowhere. Let tomorrow worry about itself and enjoy today while it’s still here.”

Edwin caught her wrist as she pulled away and brought her into his arms. “You’re home. Festival or not, that’s enough for me.”

Bryony laughed as he pulled her in for their first proper kiss in over a month, which was cut woefully short by a disgusted noise at the back of the room. Eliza stood with her arms across her chest and a look of pure revulsion on her face.

“Are we going or not?”

While Bryony got ready, Edwin relieved the maid from her evening duties and sent one final message off to Inspector Briggs in case he needed to find them. Less than thirty minutes later Bryony was in her most comfortable dress, looking just as lively as she’d been before leaving for the quarantine.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Edwin said as Eliza groaned in tortured exasperation.

He took the steps to the ground floor three at a time, his thoughts still of where he could take Bryony and Eliza that would be both safe and entertaining. He’d heard Highstreet was blocked off in its entirety for the celebration, full of dancers and artists, fortunetellers and food stalls. Bryony had scarcely eaten at lunch, perhaps it would be best to start there…

Edwin opened the door, and before he even had a chance to register the face felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. He stumbled back a step and looked to where a bright red stain was spreading through his waistcoat.

“Wha…?”

The assailant pushed his way in, knife dripping with blood. _His_ blood, which was now seeping through Edwin’s fingers as he clutched his belly.

Without thinking Edwin launched himself at his attacker. An overpowering, primal fear told him that his family was in danger, and he had to do something, _anything,_ to keep them safe. He felt no pain as the clumsy maneuver knocked them both to the ground and they rolled into the hat rack, knocking it to the floor. The attacker roared as a lucky punch connected with his mouth, teeth cutting into Edwin’s knuckles. The knife flashed again, sinking past belts of muscle where Edwin's chest met his shoulder, scraping against bone.

With a sickening squelch, the assailant pulled the knife free and rolled to his feet. He kicked Edwin savagely in the ribs before he could even react. Edwin felt something in his side pop and curled in on himself instinctively to protect from the blows, but no more came. Confused and disorientated, he looked up. The assailant had the bloody knife raised against his own palm. A word of power was shouted into the air, and a deep score was carved into tender flesh.

 _Blood magic_ , Edwin realized dully.

Blood trickled from the attacker’s hand and formed a fine red mist. His knees buckled, but he managed to remain on his feet as a thick, odious magic descended over Edwin.

_I’m going to die._

“ _DAD!”_

Edwin’s head snapped to the stairway. “Eliza, no!”

Edwin didn’t know if the desperate plea came from his lips or Bryony’s, but it distracted the attacker just enough. The oppressive magic lifted from Edwin as he turned his attention to Edwin's daughter. It was then, and only then, that Edwin’s panicked mind recognized the face of the man attacking him.

“ _You?_ I…I don’t understand.”

His face twisted into a hateful snarl. “Death to all mages."

The red mist descended over Eliza. The second it touched her skin she began to scream.

“No!” Edwin cried. “No no nono _no…_ ”

Edwin tried to stand and failed. Bryony caught Eliza as she crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. The screaming did not stop, not even for her to draw breath. Her back arched unnaturally far, and she began to claw at her neck and face.

The madman’s knife slipped through his fingers. He sunk to his knees.

“It wasn’t supposed…to be…her.”

And with this pronouncement made, he slumped to the ground.

Edwin didn’t notice. He didn’t notice anything but his wife and child. Using the last of his strength, he crawled over to where Eliza lay. Bryony was struggling to hold her down, chanting a spell so quickly that the words almost overlapped one another as they came out of her mouth. Eliza’s body shuddered and then went still. Her brown eyes were open impossibly wide, wild with a fear that Edwin couldn’t understand. He could see the pulse in her throat thundering at terrible speed, each breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

The effort of the spell nearly made Bryony collapse on the both of them. Edwin grabbed the hem of her dress with a bloodied hand. “G…get help. You’ve…nothing l-left.”

Bryony looked down at him helplessly, tears gathering at the corner of her eyes. She stumbled over to the dead man before falling hard on her knees. She let out a frustrated cry, and tried to stand again.

Beside Edwin, Eliza began to shake as whatever spell Bryony placed on her started to break. The pulse in her throat beat even faster as every muscle in her small body tensed in a horrible rictus. A rivulet of blood trickled down her cheek where her nails managed to pierce through skin.

With a final shudder, Eliza gasped like a drowning man resurfacing for air, her back bowing backward as far as it could without breaking. Her lungs filled to capacity, she let out the most terrible noise Edwin had ever heard. The sound—equal parts frightened scream, agonized cry, and the final ululations of a dying animal—was something he would have thought impossible for any person to make, let alone a nine year old child. And not just any child, _his daughter,_ terrorized by a spell meant for him.

“Please, gods, Eliza. Please…someone help.” Edwin’s limbs grew cold and his voice weak as begged with his dying breaths for someone, _anyone,_ to help his daughter.

But there was no one, and Edwin’s voice faded to a pathetic whisper, his tears mixing with the blood still flowing from his chest and belly. The last of his strength faded, and he rested his cheek against the hard, unforgiving floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw was his wife pick up the madman’s knife, her hands trembling with fear and exhaustion.

“Bryony, no…”

“There's no time. I can’t…I can’t just let her die.”

In one smooth motion the edge of the blade slid across Bryony’s palm, its keen edge leaving a deep wound as it traced a familiar path. The red of her eyes darkened, and blood trickled from her nose and mouth. A scarlet ribbon rose from the cut, somehow both beautiful and terrible. It made a bloody halo with Bryony at its center, and with her voice low and steady she began to chant.  

Unlike the madman’s curse, there was nothing foul or oppressive in Bryony’s magic. It was warm, like a favorite chair in front of a fire on a cold winter day. The feeling drowned out Eliza’s terrorized screams, leaving Edwin at peace.

His eyes closed and his breathing began to slow. A moment later Bryony stopped speaking. There was perfect silence, then the sound of her falling heavily against the ground.

It would be the last thing Edwin heard before joining his wife in death, the fate of his daughter unknown.  


	2. A Trip to Osford

Margot was rechecking her suitcase for the third time when she heard someone knock on her front door. She shoved the packet of baking soda she used to clean her teeth—nearly forgotten the flurry of last-minute packing—into a side pocket and hurried from her bedroom to the door. A snap of the fingers lit the handful of candles she had spread throughout her parlor, supplementing the soft, predawn light that shone through the windows.

The person knocked a second time, and standing on her toes Margot peered through her peephole, irritation fading to wry amusement when she saw who it was. She opened the door.

“Mr. Cain. Why am I not surprised?”

Dashiell Cain was a tall, broad-shouldered man of mixed orcish, elvish, and human heritage, solidly built as most orcs were, but soft around the edges. He’d joked once that his brain was the only muscle he ever exercised, to which Margot retorted that he was in sorry shape indeed. He wore an old trilby hat at a crooked angle over his long ears and had a magical trench coat that ought to have made him look intimidating but didn’t. His hazel eyes were quick and clever and his smile easygoing. Dash was a detective by trade, a mage by hobby, and a friend born of circumstance. Margot was glad to see him, even at this ungodly hour.

“Hello, Professor. Figured since Lyra wasn’t around I’d see you off to the ferry before heading off to the office.”

“I’d like that,” Margot said.

“How she doing, by the way? I never thought she’d stop laughing at me the other day.”

Margot snorted, moving away from the door to let him in. “That’s because you were being ridiculous.”

“Hey, I was just showing off that spell you taught me.” He yawned, before reaching inside his magical pocket to select one of a seemingly-infinite supply of beef jerky sticks, which he consumed in large enough amounts that Margot was sure he would go into withdrawals if ever deprived.

“You summoned a breeze to make your coat billow behind you, and she’s doing quite well, thank you for asking. If I’m lucky we might be able to meet in Osford,” Margot said. “Wait here a minute, I’ve got to get my bag.”   

She returned a moment later, suitcase in hand. Dash cocked an eyebrow. “Only one? You pack light for a lady.”

“Don’t kid yourself; it’s magical storage,” Margot said, magnanimously overlooking his gross generalization of half the world's population. “Still weighs a ton. How does your coat get around the problem of mass? You’d almost have to have a pocket dimension in your, er, pocket.”

Dash shrugged. “Dunno. I just bought the thing. Almost had to take out a loan to afford it at all. Do you want me to carry your bag for you? It can be my going away present since I didn't get you one.”

“I can manage,” Margot said. “And I’m not going to be gone _that_ long.”

“What is it you’re doing again? I forget.”

They left the house together, Dash modulating his long strides to keep pace with her. Margot doubted he had really forgotten. Dash liked to play the lovable idiot at times, but his mind was sharp. What she didn’t know was if he was digging for more information or simply making conversation.

“I’ve been asked to test levels of magical pollution in the river. I took a class in Osford when I was still in training, and I guess someone remembered my name.”

“They can’t test their own water?” Dash asked.

“They do, but the city is under regulations drafted by a Wizard to have regular quality assurance checks done by an outside party. I’m one of several people who will be making an inspection,” Margot explained. “There was a sickness that went through…goodness, it must have been twenty years ago now, that was caused in part by mages dumping the waste from their experiments into the sewage system instead of disposing of it properly. It’s fortunate that it didn’t spread far, but a bunch of people died.”

“Yeesh, that’s awful.”

They walked in comfortable silence for several moments. It was a grey, dreary morning, with a thick, almost smothering layer of fog firmly entrenched in the streets, making it difficult to see more than a block or two in any direction. It was the sort of day that was made for sleeping in late or enjoying a book and a strong cup of coffee. Not for the first time, Margot cursed whoever it was who had the bright idea to purchase a ticket for the five-thirty ferry.

“So you studied in Osford?” Dash said after a while.

“Not really. One of my teachers knew a water master down that way, and he’s the one who taught us how to water walk.”

Dash face brightened. “You can walk on water?”

“Better, I can walk under it,” Margot said. “To pass the class you had to cross from Osford to its sister city on the other side of the river. If I remember right, it was almost three miles across. The master who taught us claimed he could cross the whole of the Rhannu Mor if he wanted. I almost believe him.”

Dash let out a low whistle. “So when are you going to teach me that one?”

“That’s a little above your paygrade,” Margot said. She made a little shooing motion with a hand, and the fog parted ahead of them.

“Now you’re just showing off.”

“Maybe,” she said, smirking only a little. She nodded to a passerby who clapped at the demonstration, and she heard her name mentioned by an elvish woman setting up her vegetable stall.

The small bit of notoriety was strange to hear, but it was becoming more common in certain parts of the city. One didn’t do battle with a Greater Drath and come out alive—if not unscathed—without gaining a little attention, and that only increased when _someone_ leaked to the press the part she played in unearthing the cause of death of famous mage some months previous. Margot wasn’t sure she would ever forgive Felix Wright for pulling her into his spin campaign, nor Dash for finding the entire thing hilarious.

That was easy for him to laugh. His whole career revolved around solving riddles for money, and the attention helped Dash get his name out to a public who might one day be in need of his services. Things were messier for her. Politics was something Margot never cared for and she typically took steps to avoid them whenever possible. She was a professor first and foremost, and there were certain kinds of attention she could do without.

Things would settle back to normal in time, and Margot hoped after a short absence people would forget about it altogether. She looked forward to returning to Osford now that she was an instructor herself. It was a city famous for its many schools of magic, which collectively produced a higher volume of mages than anywhere else in the human lands.

“Hey, Prof?” Dash said, breaking through her thoughts.

“Hmn?”

“Is it just me, or is something’s wrong with that lady over there?”

Margot followed his gaze where a woman was staggering down the street, a hand braced on a nearby storefront to keep from falling over. At first Margot thought she was drunk, for all that it was the butt-crack of dawn. But the longer she looked, the more that didn’t seem right. The way the woman’s other hand was clutched at her chest triggered every alarm bell in her head.

Together Margot and Dash hurried toward her, pushing past the bystanders giving her a wide berth. She was a tall, scarecrow of a woman, dressed in trousers and long tunic with detailed embroidery on the sleeves and collar. Black hair was kept in a severe knot at the nape of the neck, with not a single strand out of place.

What _was_ out of place was her complexion, which was sickly grey in color. Her face shone with sweat, and she appeared to be short of breath. Yet she moved forward with grim determination, each step more labored than the last.

“Ma’am, are you okay?” Dash asked.

She didn’t seem to hear them, and Margot put a hand on her arm to stop her. The woman jerked spastically, pulling away from Margot as if she were on fire. “D-don’t touch me!” she gasped. “Get away!”

“Hey now, we’re just trying to help,” Margot said soothingly. “Have you been hurt?”

The woman looked down at Margot as if she couldn’t comprehend the words that were coming out of her mouth, and for the first time Margot was able to get a good look at her face. There weren't many things that could catch Margot off-guard, but she nearly recoiled at what she saw. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Dash swear.

The woman had a haggard, almost gaunt look about her, with prominent cheekbones and sunken eyes that were blood-red where they should have been white. Her pupils were blown wide open, with only the tiniest sliver of brown remaining to buffer between the unnatural red and the abyss of black.

“Yeah, you need a healer,” Margot said. She noticed the hand clutching the woman’s chest tighten and wondered if she was having some kind of apoplexic attack. “Do you need to sit down?”

“You can trust her, the professor here’s a mage,” Dash added.

“Not one that knows about healing,” Margot muttered.

“Get away from me!” the woman cried. “There isn’t any _time_. I n-need to get to Kempeston…see Master Wu…”

Dash and Margot shared a distraught look. Master Wu had not been at the Kempeston Academy for weeks, and would never be again. The news was recent and abrupt enough that people still came seeking his council from time to time, only to be sent away disappointed.

“Professor Margot works at Kempeston,” Dash said gently. “Maybe she can help you.”

The woman’s eyes widened, and her whole body was overtaken by another spasm. Then she began to cough, a harsh, brassy sound that forced her to double over, then sink to the ground as her strength gave out entirely.

A murmur rippled through the small cluster of people that were starting to gather behind Margot and Dash. Margot pursed her lips in an unhappy line. “Send for help, then keep them back. She needs space.”

Dash nodded. “Roger that, Prof.”

Margot kneeled by the woman while Dash worked crowd control. The woman scarcely seemed to notice. She was staring at her hands, which were smeared with the same blood that was now trickling out of the corner of her mouth. Her head rolled back against the storefront. Each breath came out in a heavy gasp.

“Consumption?” Margot said.

“No,” she said, her voice raspy and weak. “Please…don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we get you to a healer,” Margot said. She put two fingers to the woman’s neck and found her pulse thready and her skin burning hot.

The woman grabbed Margot’s hand, her grip surprisingly strong for how weak she seemed. “Promise me. You won’t…go.”

The woman’s eyes, so unnatural and unnerving, were wide with panic. Margot tried to think of a spell that could calm her before the healers arrived, but none came to mind. Her specialty was water magic, not the human body, and she was afraid of somehow making things worse when she was in such poor condition already.

“I promise,” Margot said.

“don’t. go,” she repeated, her voice small and fading.  

“I won’t,” Margot promised. “Help is coming. Just hang on for a few more minutes.

The woman’s grip loosened, and her hand slid out of Margot’s, leaving a smear of blood on her palm. It fell heavily by her side, and the woman let out a soft wheeze that might have been a laugh.

“don’t have…minutes…”

And before Margot could say anything more, she was dead.

* * *

“And you said she was _talking_ up until the point she died?”

“Pretty much,” Margot said irritably. “I don’t know what else you want me to say, Inspector. She looked sick, we tried to help, and now she’s gone. I don’t even know her name.”

Inspector Mattathias Mathers looked down his beak of a nose, tapping his pencil on his notepad. “Hmn. It seems atypical of most disease processes, but I have seen stranger. I thank you for your cooperation, Professor. I’ll need you to be seen by one of our healers to be Cleansed. Whatever she had might be contagious.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Margot said, more than happy to be free from Inspector Mather’s presence. None of the three conversations they’d shared were what she would call pleasant and his stoicism did nothing to put her at ease after being brought face to face with yet another bit of trouble.  

Margot fought the urge to rub her palms against her skirts. She could still feel the dead woman’s blood on her hands even after scrubbing them clean. She had seen death before, of course, first at the makeshift hospital after the Drath attack, where the bloodied remains of those who stood in the way of the demon's march from the Academy to its makeshift summoning circle. Witness accounts claimed the Drath had eaten people the same way a natural frog would a fly, and after that Margot did her best not to think about how those poor souls had met their end.

Then had been the explosion at the mage’s conference, where Margot was the first to discover the charred remains of Master Arthur Wright. The smell of his burnt flesh would be something Margot wouldn’t forget as long as she lived, and still gave her nightmares from time to time.

But this felt different. Margot had seen another person die in front of her eyes and had been helpless to stop it.

She didn’t even know the woman’s name.

“Hey, Prof. Is Mathers finished with you?” Dash asked.

“Yeah,” Margot said flatly. “I just need to see a healer then I can go.”

"Just got back from there myself." He forced a bracing smile. “I got your bag.”

“Thanks.”

Something about her tone made him pause. “There was nothing more you could have done. You know that, right?”

“I know it, I just don’t know if I believe it,” Margot said. “C’mon. I’ve still got to get to Osford today.”

“You’re still going?” Dash asked.

“I can’t _not_ go.” Margot swallowed around the lump in her throat, and said quietly, “I’m starting to think I’ve got the worst luck in the world.”

Dash cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. First this.” She gestured broadly to the scars that marred the left side of her body. “Then Master Wright, and now this. How much trouble can one person attract in such a short period of time?”

“I dunno. That's pretty bad, but I don't think it qualifies as the worst luck in the entire world,” Dash said. He handed over Margot’s bag before reaching for a jerky stick. “Seems to me that without the Drath you wouldn’t have met Lyra, and without Master Wright you wouldn’t have met me. And we all know what a charming fellow I am.”

He winked devilishly, and Margot laughed despite herself. “ _Charming_ is a bit of a stretch, but you are a good friend." She gave him a brief hug. "Thanks, Dash.”

“You’d do the same for me," he said as they pulled apart. "Hey, how about I keep an eye on things here and let you know what I find out. Would that make you feel better? It'll have to wait till you get back, though. I can't do any magic talk from that far away.” 

“That would make me feel a little better,” Margot admitted. “But right now I’ll settle for making sure our mystery woman didn’t give me tuberculosis.”

Half an hour later Margot left the precinct with a clean bill of health and permission from the local authorities to go to Osford as planned. Before leaving, she made use of the long-distance spell line to send word ahead that she had been delayed. Her contact from Osford’s Council of Mages assured her there was no problem, and that a woman by the name of Lucinda Fairchild would be eagerly waiting for her arrival.

Margot made it to the next available ferry without incident, but as she leaned over the rail and look at the seemingly endless expanse of river that lay ahead she could only hear the woman’s dying words ringing through her mind like clock tower bells striking in a new hour.

_Don’t go, don’t go, please don’t go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who works in health care, I always hate when characters have long, drawn out speeches when they're supposed to be dying, but man alive if it doesn't make for some deliciously dramatic storytelling.
> 
> And I weighed heavily the possibility of Margot knowing some basic healing spells before deciding against it. While I find it conceivable that she might know a few tricks for scraped knees and the like--or even learned some pain management spells after she got her burn--the healing equivalent of a band-aid isn't going to do much when someone's actively dying. Our mystery lady needed the big guns if she was going to have a chance, and that's just not Margot's area of expertise. 
> 
> For those who are curious, apoplexy is the old-timey term for a stroke. I wanted to use an archaic term for heart attack, but I don't think one exists. Consumption is the old term for a wasting disease, which could be caused by several things but is most commonly associated with tuberculosis (which having spent some time on a tuberculosis ward, is not nearly as romantic as the Victorians made it out to be.)
> 
> Also, geography isn't my strongest suit at the best of times, and my mental map of the DotL world is really fuzzy even with the patreon exclusives. I'm not really sure if the main story takes place in elf country of the human lands, and in all honesty it doesn't really matter. Osford is an indeterminate distance from Kempeston (if that is indeed the name of the town and not just the school) and is most quickly reached by boat. It's my story, I can do what I want.
> 
> Lastly I'm taking inspiration from a lot of different things for this story and I want to give credit where credit is due. Ever since reading Tamora Pierce novel Briar's Book as a kid I've wondered what it would be like to get sick in a world where magical healing exists. The concept of a disease born from improperly disposed of magical waste comes from there.


	3. Dinner Talk

It had been years since Margot last saw Osford, and she had forgotten what it felt like to be in a city seeped in magic. Kempeston had its fair share of mages, but Osford was _saturated_ in them. Magic was in the air, literally, and bled into every stone, every blade of grass, and every drop of water. A person untrained in the magical arts wasn’t likely to notice it, but for someone as sensitive as Margot it was almost impossible to ignore. It made her skin tingle and her scars itch, and when she stepped off the ferry it felt as if the city itself was pressing against her.

Margot knew from experience that she would adjust in a day or two—just in time for her to finish her inspection and be on the ferry back home. It was impossible to say just how much this magical excess effected the people and environment, though in the years after the plague it became a hotly debated topic within the scientific and magical communities.

While apologists argued that magic was a natural phenomenon found readily in nature, if not in such concentrated amounts, most acknowledged that the sheer amount of ambient energy put pressure on the fabric of space-time that knitted the world together. The problem was the laws that governed this underpinning of reality remained firmly rooted in the realm of theory and speculation, and no one could agree on how much Osford’s glut for magic affected it. Worse yet, there was no place with which to compare it to. Even the great bastions of magic found deep in the Elven heartlands differed from Osford in one, vital way, and that was industrialization.

Mages required tools to ply their craft, and the factories of Osford were more than happy to meet their need. These factories were often run and maintained by mages themselves, creating a never-ending feedback loop of supply and demand. Smokestacks up and down the river cheerfully pumped immense volumes black smoke into the air that gathered into a noxious cloud that could be seen from miles away, hanging over the city like a pall.

Contrary to—or perhaps because of—the grim, dirty business of the industrial sector, Osford was a city of color. Buildings could be painted any shade imaginable, so long as it was bright enough to cause blindness if one happened to look at it for too long. Clothes were vibrant and rich, and glamours were popular with those who could afford them. Street artists mixed magic with chalk and paint to create living drawings, or wove a spell into a song as they peddled for a coin or two.

To visit Osford was, in a word, an _experience._ Regardless of one’s opinions after walking the magic-saturated streets, it was impossible to leave without feeling _something_ towards the city.

Margot took a deep breath and nearly choked on the smoky air, trying to take in all the sights and sensations at once. Memories came flooding back of her apprenticeship. The sense of wonder was undercut when she remembered vividly the first time she saw someone with the distinctive pockmarks the Red Death left behind, and heard of the terrible pain many of the survivors continued to suffer nearly a decade after it made its deathly march through the city.

“Professor Margot?”

Margot searched the crowd and quickly found who was calling her name. A small retinue were clustered around a woman she presumed was Lucinda Fairchild. As a senior member of the Council of Mages she was one of Osford’s most powerful politicians, but she looked and carried herself like someone’s young grandmother. Auburn hair was swept back in an attractive coiffure and her bottle-green dress cut in the latest style. When she smiled faint lines framing her eyes crinkled as if she were sharing an inside joke with herself.

“Councilor,” Margot said respectfully. “I’m sorry I’m late. I ran into a bit of trouble and missed my boat.”

“Your absence was keenly felt, but what’s important is that you’re here now,” she said before turning to the man standing next to her. “May I introduce my colleague and the newest member of our Council, Aemilius King.”

“Please, call me Emil,” he said. He gave Margot a hearty handshake and a winsome smile that she couldn’t help but find appealing. The councilor couldn’t have been much older than thirty, and had a sort of calculated charm that took advantage of his good looks without drawing too much attention to them. Tall, lanky, and with that boyish grin that made him look about as intimidating as an overgrown puppy, Margot felt immediately comfortable standing next to him.

Other introductions were made to various aides, and many hands were shook. Someone relieved Margot of her luggage, and before long she was walking down the streets of Osford with the two councilors.

“You must be tired after your journey,” Councilor Fairchild said. “There was a dinner planned for the inspection team, but if you would rather we could go straight to your hotel.”

“Dinner sounds lovely, and I would like to meet the people I’ll be working with while I’m here.”

Councilor Fairchild favored her with an indulgent smile. “Very well, Professor. Dinner it is. But I would be remiss if I didn’t say that I hope you don’t see this trip as all work and no play. Osford has much to offer even to those who are just passing through.”

“I look forward to reacquainting myself, but I’m more excited to see the progress that’s been made since my last visit. If I’m remembering correctly, there were quite a few projects in the works,” Margot said.  

“Quite right,” Councilor King said. “Over the last two decades we’ve implemented some of the most ambitious infrastructure projects in city history. Indoor plumbing for all, with access to clean water a requirement for every new development. Our sanitation system is state of the art; you won’t find anything like it in all the world.”

“Oh, Emil, do stop,” Councilor Fairchild said. “The poor woman just got here; she doesn’t want to talk about _sanitation._ ”

Margot stifled a laugh at the wounded look on Councilor King’s face—surely exaggerated, because the moment Councilor Fairchild wasn’t looking he turned to wink at Margot. She gave a little shrug in response, as if to say, _What can you do?_ and he smiled impishly.

The ice thusly broken, Margot was led into a horseless carriage which drove them to the restaurant where they would be dining. It was a terraced, open building in the modern style. Inside pillars of dark wood stretched to hold up a ceiling spelled to look like an idyllic sunset, and an artificial waterfall bubbled from the second floor into a small stream that wound throughout the entire restaurant like the Tributine River, but in miniature.

Councilor Fairchild approached the maître d’ about their reservation, and Margot was forced to do a double take. Instead of a flesh and blood person, the most sophisticated automaton she’d ever seen led them to a back room were a sizable crowd was already gathered.

“The School of Artificing partners this particular establishment,” Councilor King explained quietly. “The restaurant gets state of the art technology to draw in customers, and the school gets free advertising. It’s a win-win situation.”

Before Margot could respond, she was being introduced to more people, this time the engineers and public health officials that formed Osford’s part of the inspection team. Finally she was led to a table were two men sat.

“Professor Margot, may I introduce Master Liam Struttford and Magus Eoin Ó Canain,” Councilor Fairchild said. “They will be your direct partners in the days ahead.”

Margot clasped hands with Struttford, a small, mousy man of about fifty with a receding hairline and thick glasses that gave him an owlish appearance. Immediately she felt the overwhelming weight of his magic bearing down on her, the mage’s equivalent of purposefully squeezing too hard on a handshake in order to make some juvenile point. Margot answered back with a surgically precise bolt of power that sent a shock all the way up his arm, never once letting her smile falter. He jerked back with a suppressed yelp.

Ó Canain snorted from his spot at the table, and made no move to uncross his arms from his chest to greet her. He eschewed a suit for a sleeveless tunic that gave a clear view of the intricate tattoos that covered both arms. There was a sharpness to his features, and he looked down at the proceedings with obvious disdain.

 _Lovely_. Margot had hoped a humanitarian project like this would be free of the inflated egos that typified mages, but no such luck.   

Councilor Fairchild’s gaze lingered on Struttford, a shadow of disapproval that was gone almost as soon as it arrived passing over her face. “Gentlemen, this is Professor Margot of the Kempeston Academy for the Magical Arts.”

“You’re late,” Ó Canain said.

“You missed the day’s fun,” Struttford added. “I got dropped down the main sewer line. Was up to my knees in sh—“

“Master Struttford, there will be plenty of time to talk about such matters _after_ dinner,” Councilor Fairchild said primly. She turned to Margot with the most practiced politician’s smile she had ever seen. “Well then. I leave you to get to know your colleagues.”

She returned to her aides, and Margot settled next to Ó Canain. “So you were in the sewers?”

“ _I_ was in the sewers,” Struttford said. “Sir Grouch here got to play by the river.” He took a deep draught from his wineglass. “You should try this. It’s really good.”

“You would know,” Ó Canain muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Struttford said cheerfully. “And for your information, this is my first glass. I know better than to get drunk before a big job.”

Ó Canain stared at him as if he were stupid. “They’re refilling, you imbecile.”

Struttford blinked owlishly. “They are?” He took another gulp and set the glass on the table, watching with wonder as it refilled itself. He blinked again. “Well then. That certainly explains a lot.”

Margot had the courtesy not to agree with him out loud.

“In my defense, I’ve done this kinda work before in other places and _none_ of them have been this nice. Osford really knows how to make a mage feel welcome, y’know? D’you think they’d hire me to work here fulltime?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,” Margot said.

“Probably,” Ó Canain said at the same time.

 Struttford brightened. “You really think so?”

“They’ll take anyone who can pay to join a school,” Ó Canain said dismissively.

“I don’t care about any of that so long as I can find a job that's steady. Well, that and have the people in charge listen. There are a surprising number of places that don’t want to pay what it takes for a good sewage system. A glorious profession, mine is not,” Struttford said. “I wonder what kind of medallion you get for specializing in sanitation," he wondered

“Medallion?” Margot asked.

“Osford’s brand of mage certification. You need one to practice magic fulltime within city limits,” Struttford said. “Our friend here has one. Why don’t you show her?”

Ó Canain grudgingly pulled out a necklace hidden under the neck of his tunic. A copper medallion hung from the thin chain, and Margot could just make out a wave pattern cut into the metal.

“Copper for journeymen, silver for masters, and gold for grandmasters,” Struttford explained.

“I don’t need a piece of metal to tell me how skilled I am,” Ó Canain said, hiding the necklace once more.

“Nope, only to do business,” Struttford said cheerfully.

“It’s completely asinine,” Ó Canain said. “A bureaucratic loophole that discriminates against any mage who doesn’t train at one of the local schools—or pay money to have their name attached to one.”

Struttford grinned. “Oh, quit being such a sourpuss. I talked to Councilor Fairchild, and she said joining a school is a formality. _I_ think it’s brilliant that the mages are in charge.” He raised his wineglass in mock salute. “To Osford and paving the way to modernity, one toilet at a time!”

He giggled uncontrollably while the others stared at him. Luckily Margot was saved the pain of second-hand embarrassment by the arrival of the food, which was served buffet-style. Conversation was suspended in a clatter of plates and silverware. Margot plated for herself catfish that had been baked with a mixture of spices and drizzled in a lemon-butter sauce. It felt like it had been an eternity since she’d last eaten, and the smell made her suddenly ravenous. But as she was about to take a bite there was a crash, followed by a loud oath from Ó Canain and Struttford’s profuse apologies.

It was the ever-filling wineglass, which apparently did not have a contingency written into the spellwork to _stop_ refilling if tipped over. Struttford’s clumsy attempts to help only made matters worse—and Ó Canain more frustrated. Hurriedly Margot righted the glass, preventing the situation from getting even more out of hand.

“I am so sorry. Let me help,” Struttford stammered. He made a few sharp gestures, and the wine staining Ó Canain’s clothes lifted into the air. Margot offered a soup bowl, which was gratefully accepted, and Struttford placed the globe of liquid inside.

By now everyone was staring, and Struttford was no longer laughing. Hunkering down in his seat, he looked as if he wished he could disappear. There was no sympathy to be had from Ó Canain, so Margot pushed a plate of food toward him.

“Eat,” she said firmly. “And for gods’ sake drink some water.”

“I am so, _so_ sorry.”

“It is not your fault that they serve alcohol to idiots,” Ó Canain said stiffly. He shoved himself to his feet. “I knew coming here was a mistake. I should be with my boats.” Mustering the last scraps of his dignity, he fixed icy blue eyes on Struttford.

“And before you go waxing poetic on a subject you clearly know nothing about, I would consider this: Osford knew about its tainted water supply _years_ before the Red Death struck and did _nothing_ to correct the problem when they still had the chance. I would think twice about lauding the people for fixing a mistake that was their own fault to begin with, and wonder more about who benefits from all of this charlatanry. Because I can assure you it’s _not_ the common man.”

With that, Ó Canain stormed out of the restaurant. If possible Struttford’s face flushed a deeper shade of red. He took a few timid bites of food before hanging his head. “Why am I such an idiot?”

Margot was more concerned that they had lost one of their mages. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“I hope so,” Struttford mumbled. “He’s one of the River People. Y’know, one of those traders that goes up and down the Tributine selling useless crap.”

“Really?” Margot asked, surprised. “ _Him?_ ”

“You know of them?”

“I learned to water walk from one of their masters,” Margot said.

“I didn’t think they taught outsiders,” Struttford said. “Is it true they’re descendants from mermaids?”

“What? No, of course not—“ Margot cut herself off as Councilor King approached their table, concern replacing his jovial smile.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Just peachy,” Margot said as Struttford tried once more to sink under the table. “Our friend said something about needing to check on his boats. I’m sure he’ll rejoin us in the morning.”

The councilor nodded slowly. “I imagine so. His type don’t like spending time on dry land if they can help it. Strange folk, the lot of them. I wonder what made him want to volunteer.”

Margot didn’t have an answer. The master who led her class all those years ago had been nothing like Eoin Ó Canain in temperament, eager and willing to share his people’s beliefs and traditions to anyone who was willing to learn. He claimed that every child born into their culture was trained in the arts of water and illusion almost before they could walk, and his spellwork backed up that claim. If Ó Canain was half as skilled he would be a useful mage to have during the inspections.

Lost in thought, Margot finally took a bite of her food, and Struttford quickly did the same. The rest of the meal was spent in awkward silence.

* * *

Dash was locking up the office when he got the message he was wanted down at the mortuary. He made the trip in record time, forgoing his usual habit of greeting the people he recognized as he went along. His old boss and teacher always said it was good to have a presence in the community where you worked, that way no one knew if you were making small talk or fishing for information on a case. Dash had gotten pretty good at talking over the years, but he was an even better listener. And it was what he heard before Margot left for Osford that informed his haste now.

People didn’t just drop dead in the street for no good reason. Even if the prof hadn’t been so obviously upset, Dash would have been interested in the case of the dead woman. It looked to him like a simple case of consumption left untreated, but Margot claimed the woman denied that before she died, and the preliminary spellwork supported her. It was fishy enough for the good Inspector Mathers to fast track the woman’s post-mortem, and luckily for Dash he had a friend or two willing to keep him up to date on the details.

He was met at the mortuary by Gabriel Hammon, an enthusiastic young investigator whose mouth was too big for his own good. The kid—who always seemed so much younger than Dash even though they were approximately the same age—was a talented enough mage and a good mate to have in a pinch. Dash thought with a bit of polish he’d go far.

As Gabe led him down to where the stiffs were kept, Dash asked, “You’re not going to get in trouble for this, are you?”

“Not this time,” Gabe said. “We don’t even know if a crime’s been committed, to be honest. Besides, I thought you had the right to know since you were, y’know, _there._ ”

Dash hummed in agreement and selected a jerky stick out of his pocket. He’d tried to play the whole thing cool for the professor, but the whole series of events shook him. He’d seen enough unpleasantness to be aware of his own mortality, but it had always been in the abstract. He never expected to see a woman die while out for a morning stroll.

“So if you don’t know if there’s been a crime, does that mean you don’t know how the dame died?” Dash asked.

“It’s, um, not that simple. I’ll let Morty explain.”

Gabe pushed open the door, and a wave of cool air washed over them. “Your coroner’s named _Morty?_ ” Dash asked.

“No,” a thin voice called from the center of the room. “It’s just what people call me.”

Morty was a young man only a little older than Dash, with a lab coat that had been washed one too many times to really be called white hanging limply from a gangly frame. Everything about him looked disheveled, from his shaggy brown hair, to his patchy brown beard, to his wrinkly brown suit. He stood over the corpse of the dead woman, who was thankfully covered with a sheet so only her face was visible.

“Mind your step and don’t touch anything,” Morty intoned. “I would hate to have to stab you.”

The mage light hanging from the ceiling glinted off the blade of the scalpel in his hand, and Gabe chuckled nervously. “He’s joking." There was a pause. "I think."

Dash finished his jerky stick and reached for another. This had better be worth it.

“You’re the one who found her, right?” Morty asked as they approached the table.

“I was there when she died, yeah. What can you tell me?”

Morty turned to Dash, his eyes at half-mast giving him something of a dullard’s expression. “Everything. Whether I can make sense of it is another story.”

“That’s encouraging,” Dash said.

“There was no sign of physical trauma. Whatever killed our Jane Doe came from inside her. In particular, the lungs were full of fluid, and I think no matter what else happened that would have killed her eventually.”

“So…it wasn’t her lungs then?” Dash asked.

“No. She bled to death from the inside.”

Dash and Gabe shared a horrified expression while Morty shuffled over to his desk where a thick medical text lay open. “The symptoms fit with consumption coagulopathy, but I don’t think that’s what it is either. I couldn’t find any evidence of disease or poison, just...bleeding.”

“You’re saying a bunch of words, but I’m not understanding any of them,” Dash said. “Any way you can dumb that down?”

He thought for a moment. “Have you ever blown your nose after bloodying it only to make it bloody again because you moved the clots?”

“Yeah.”

“The body can only make so many of those clots at a time. And if it happens to run out of clot stuff—because it’s really sick or really hurt—then any little injury turns into a big deal because the body has no way to make the bleeding stop.” He tapped thoughtfully on the page of his book. “So the question becomes, why couldn’t this lady clot?”

“Is that why her eyes were red?” Dash asked. 

“Strangely enough, no. By my estimates the subconjunctival hemorrhage was at least three days old at the time of death. Now look at this.”

Morty carefully brought the woman’s right hand out from under the sheet, uncurling her fingers so Dash and Gabe could plainly see a wound cutting through the center of her palm. Dash frowned.

“I thought you said she hadn’t been attacked?”

“I did. This wound is also several days old and showed signs of normal healing. But look here.” He pointed to a patch of skin next to the laceration. Dash squinted, and thought he could see parts of an old scar.

“A botched healing, maybe?” Gabe guessed.

“Close, but no. I took a tissue sample and spelled it just to be sure, but Jane Doe’s palm is actually _resistant_ to magical healing.”

Dash’s head jerked up to look at the smiling Morty. “What?”

“You see it more with the elderly. Too many healings and the body becomes resistant. But what’s _really_ strange is that it’s just her palm. Jane Doe has healed it so much that she literally couldn’t heal it any more.”

He tucked the hand respectfully back under the sheet. “Her musculature suggests that she’s left handed, which supports my theory that the injury is self-inflicted.”

Morty retreated from the autopsy table to a long bench lining the back of the wall, Dash and Gabe following him like lost puppies. A series of items were laid out, each carefully positioned and labeled: The woman’s clothes, a strange silver necklace, a thin-bladed knife…

“Found it in her boot,” Morty explained. “The blade matches the wound on her hand.”

“Something like that wouldn’t cause consumption coaguwhatery though, would it?” Dash said.

“Of course not, but with magical interference it could. I think our Jane Doe was a blood mage.”

“I read about those in a book once,” Gabe said. “They’re evil.”

Dash looked at him disbelievingly. “What book was that?”

Morty nodded his agreement, and Dash got the impression that he was enjoying this perhaps a little too much. “No, Gabriel’s right. You can do some seriously bad juju with blood magic. It’s illegal in a lot of places. But what’s more important is where it’s _not_ illegal. Looky here.”

He lifted the necklace by its delicate chain so Dash could get a good look at the medallion that was attached to it. About two inches in diameter the silver gleamed in the light. A burnished red circle was stamped in the middle. Carefully Dash turned it over, where a crest was etched into the metal. At the very top there was an engraving that read in bold letters CITY OF OSFORD while at the bottom was the inscribed ORDER OF THE RED DAWN.  

“I sent a message to the authorities in Osford asking what it meant,” Gabe said. “They’ve got a whole _school_ of blood mages over there. We’re waiting for them to send a list of the people who’ve got their mastery to see if any of them match the description of our lady.”

“What in the world is an Osford blood mage doing bleeding to death in Kempeston?” Dash asked.

“I don’t know, but there’s one more thing,” Gabe said. “We asked the Osford authorities to look into any crimes where blood magic was used. They said it would be awhile before they could come up with a complete list, but our contact said there was one case that was really famous twenty years ago. A double homicide, to be precise. They said the guy who did it ended up dying, but he was a layman, not a trained mage.”

Dash turned away from the necklace. “What?”

“No one knows who trained him, or if no one trained him how he got his hands on the material that would let him train himself. They don’t even know why he did it, except it probably had something to do with the epidemic going through the city at that time.”

Dash felt his heart skip a beat.

“It’s the twenty year anniversary of those murders, almost to the day,” Gabe said, wringing his hands together nervously. “Did…did Professor Margot tell you _why_ she was going to Osford?”

He ran out the door without bothering to answer. Dash's instincts were telling him that the professor was in danger, and she didn't even know it. It seemed like his hurrying wasn't done, not when he had a boat he needed to catch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to have the exposition of this chapter sound so expositiony, but I'm not convinced I succeeded. Sorry about that, hopefully we get to meatier stuff next time.
> 
> For those who are curious, consumption coagulopathy is an alternate term for disseminated intravascular coagulation (DIC for short) which in its acute form causes the body to suddenly release all its clotting factors at once. DIC is a medical emergency not just because of the risk for spontaneous bleeding, but because all those platelets cause clots which then occlude the vessels--especially small ones--restricting blood flow and dramatically increasing the risk of heart attacks, strokes, pulmonary embolisms, and other such unpleasantness. I've taken some liberties with how it presents here, because, well...magic. 
> 
> I weighed whether or not to have the autopsy of our Jane Doe completed in a single day, but decided between it being placed as a priority and the use of magic that it was an acceptable timetable. 
> 
> Lastly, I have finished one of the books I will be drawing from when it comes to the epidemic of this story. The Pale Rider: The Spanish Flu of 1912 and How it Changed the World by Laura Spinney is a fascinating multicultural, multinational look into one of the greatest losses of human life in the history of the world. It's well-written and I learned a lot, so if you're into that kind of thing go check it out. I highly recommend it.


	4. Cursed

Ó Canain didn’t show.

Margot and Struttford waited for nearly twenty minutes while their Osford counterparts tried to locate their missing mage. Angry as he was the night before, Margot wasn’t holding her breath that they would be successful. There was a certain level of frustration knowing that Ó Canain volunteered to be a part of the inspection team only to let his feelings get in the way of the job at hand, making things more difficult for those who remained.

If that wasn’t enough, poor Struttford was hungover, squinting behind his enormous glasses at the sun as if had personally offended him. After several minutes of waiting, he stopped his vigil to surreptitiously glance around to make sure no one was watching. No one was, and he snuck a drink from a flask he kept in his suit pocket.

“Just a little pick-me-up, no alcohol I promise,” he told Margot, nervously combing his fingers through his hair. “Developed the formula when I was studying for my Mastery. Spelled it myself this morning.”

“I know someone who could get some use out of something like that,” Margot said.

Struttford relaxed enough to manage a small smile. “I really am sorry about last night. I’m not typically like… _that._ ” He stuck out a hand. “Would it be okay if we started over?”

“Sure.” They shook hands, this time without any magical one-upmanship. Margot turned her attention back to the Osford officials murmuring to themselves in a corner. “I’d just as soon get started. Whether Ó Canain shows up or not, that doesn’t change what we need to get done.”

“What project did they stick you with, if you don’t mind me asking?”  

“Testing the amount of free magic in the water near the factories,” Margot said.

“Oh that makes sense. Unbonded forces can be nasty in an uncontrolled environment.” Struttford tilted his head. “Hey, I think there’s someone coming now.”

He was right. Margot recognized the man as one of Councilor Fairchild’s aides, though she didn’t recall a name. He nodded his head in greeting and said, “I’ve been instructed to take you to your work site for the day. Come along, please.”

“Any word on Mr. Ó Canain?” Struttford asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Not as of yet, no, but I’m sure there’s just been a simple miscommunication. Now if you’ll follow me, we’ll head out.”

The streets of Osford were clogged with the morning commute, and their destination was the industrial sector on the other side of town. Margot and Struttford were given a carriage and a packet describing the details of their assignments, while the aids were stuck taking rickshaws fastened to bicycles.

“You were right. They really do know how to treat mages here,” Margot observed. “I hope they don’t think that will affect my final report.”

“Do you think it’s because they’re embarrassed?” Struttford asked as he pressed his face against the carriage window.

“How do you mean?”

“You heard what Ó Canain said. Maybe it’s true, and it’s basically the city’s fault that plague came through in the first place so they’re trying to show off how much better they are now.”

“In my experience, politicians aren’t typically that up front about the mistakes they make,” Margot said.

“Yeah, but it’s kinda hard to deny when a _Wizard_ decides to get involved. I mean, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because a Wizard said so,” Struttford sighed. “I’d like to meet a Wizard someday.”

Margot smiled to herself, but decided against reminding him that until recently a Wizard had been dean at her school. “Knowing what Ó Canain said, are you still interested in working here?”

“You’d be crazy not to,” Struttford said. “I mean, I guess you’ve got it pretty steady working at the Academy, but not all of us are so lucky. Since being invited out here I’ve started doing some research, and there are a lot of perks for anyone affiliated with a school. You know, funding, resources, that sort of thing.”

“But you have your Mastery,” Margot said. “Why would you need to join a school?”

Struttford pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and said, “It’s a little confusing, but near as I can tell there isn’t a place like Kempeston here where students get a general education. They work under the old way of master and apprentice for a single discipline. Some of these so-called schools are big enough they operate more like guilds where older students take on jobs to pay off their debt to the people that trained them. Then once a student graduates their name remains attached to that school, and the school remains responsible for their actions as a mage.”

“Wait, what?” Margot said. “How can a school be responsible for a student after they’ve left?”

“Remember the medallions?” Struttford asked. “They’re all marked with where you trained, so if you screw up or there’s a complaint made against you that goes to the people who trained you and it’s up to them to take disciplinary action. Or if you do really good, then that reflects well on them too and it’s easier to attract new students.”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Margot said.

Struttford shook his head emphatically. “No, see, it’s a big series of checks and balances. The Council of Mages watches of the schools, who watch over their mages, who vote who makes it onto the council. Problems are taken care of locally and mages have the freedom to practice as they please. It’s _brilliant._ ” He squinted at her in confusion. “I’m surprised you don’t already know. Didn’t you study here?”

“It was a module taught by a friend of one of my professors. I was only in the city for a couple of weeks, and to my knowledge my professor didn’t have to jump through any ridiculous hoops to do so,” Margot said. “I still say it doesn’t make any sense. How would people like you and me get a license to practice when we didn’t study at a local school?”

“Then you either wade through the ocean of paperwork to operate independently or find a school that’s willing to have you associated with their name.” Struttford shrugged and reached into his pocket for another drink of his reviving potion. “There are three big schools focusing on water and a bunch of smaller ones. I’d only have to find one who likes me.”

Margot could see that his mind was set and it would do no good arguing. Settling back in her seat, she spent the following minutes watching the streets through the carriage window, until Struttford broke the awkward silence.

“I heard Councilor Fairchild is trying to organize an academy. A proper one, like what you’ve got at Kempeston. But I guess after so long of everyone being at odds with one another that it’d be hard to get people to work together to give students a more generalized education before they choose a specialty.”

“Change isn’t easy,” Margot said, “but kudos to her if she can pull it off. It sounds like she’s got her work cut out for her.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Struttford said with a mocking toast. He downed the rest of his potion opened up the packet giving the details of his assignment. Margot did the same, and the rest of their journey was spent in contemplative silence.

* * *

Councilors Fairchild and King were waiting when they arrived, stepping out of the sulfuric fog mixing with the early morning mist rising from the river. At the sight of them Struttford squawked in alarm and tried to hold himself at military attention, succeeding in only making himself look ridiculous, while Margot forced away an uneasy feeling that was only made worse by their grim expressions. Behind them was the sullen figure of Ó Canain, who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here.

“Good morning Master Struttford, Professor,” Councilor Fairchild said. “I am deeply sorry to impose on your work, but something has come up. Master Struttford, if you would please join Magus Ó Canain and begin preparations for the day’s work, I need a moment with the professor.”

“What for?” Margot asked.

The councilor’s lips twitched. “It’s a private matter. Please, if you would come with me.”

Struttford knew an order when he heard it, and after giving Margot a bewildered look made his way by Ó Canain. Councilor Fairchild, followed by Councilor King, led Margot a short ways away to a private corner where they would not be overheard or interrupted.

“Is there something the matter, Councilor?” Margot asked.

“I am deeply sorry for adding to all the confusion this morning,” Councilor Fairchild said, her voice low. “But word was sent from Kempeston, and I need to know if it’s true. Was your delay yesterday caused by a woman’s death?”

“Yes it was,” Margot said, the question startling all the defensiveness from her. “Why do you ask?”

Councilor Fairchild ignored the question, and with a snap of her fingers Conjured a file with a small picture fastened to the front. “Was this the woman you saw?”

Margot took the offered photograph. There was no mistaking that long, angular face, although closer inspection showed the whites of her eyes were the proper color. She returned it to the councilor and said, “It is," she said, surprised. "Who is she?”

“Her name was Miriam Caldwell, and she was one of my closest advisers,” Councilor Fairchild said. “She took a leave of absence several weeks ago to deal with a family emergency, or so I thought. I had no idea she was in Kempeston.”

Another snap Vanished the file once more, and she shared a significant look with her counterpart.

“We would appreciate if you kept this news to yourself until we find out what exactly is going on,” Councilor King said, managing to make the simple request sound like anything but.

“Of course.”

“And the authorities of Kempeston wanted me to relay the news that a Mr. Cain is en route to see you,” Councilor Fairchild added. “They said you would know what that means.”

Margot didn’t, but managed to nod anyway. “Thanks for the warning. Is there anything else I can help you with, or can I—“

She was cut off by a sudden scream for help. All three heads turned to see Ó Canain standing over Struttford’s prone form. A member of the councilor’s retinue rushed over as Ó Canain turned Struttford on his back and put two fingers to his neck. Even at a distance Margot could hear him swear in at least three languages before shouting a spell that made his hands glow a deep, midnight blue.

Margot didn’t know what she could do to help, but she ran anyway, her pulse thundering in her ears. She made it only a few steps before Ó Canain suddenly seized and collapsed on top of Struttford. Someone called for a healer and the aide closest pulled the hulking man off of Struttford’s smaller body.

There were too many people who didn’t know what they were doing. Men and woman came running out of the nearby factory to see what all the commotion was about, only confusing the matter even worse. Even if there was something Margot could have done, she was brushed aside by a growing throng of people.

Someone grabbed Margot by the wrist, and without thinking she broke out of the hold, calling upon her magic. Her glowing fist nearly hit Councilor King before she recognized who it was. She lowered her arms and asked, “What in the world are you doing?”

“You need to come with us,” he said. “You could be targeted too.”

All the air left Margot’s chest in a rush.

“What.”

“I’ll explain when we’re someplace safe.” Councilor King gestured to his aides, and suddenly Margot was surrounded and frog-marched away from Struttford and Ó Canain and the growing crowd. One of them whispered a spell, throwing a shroud over their fleeing party.

It wasn’t in Margot’s nature to run from trouble, and she took exception to being manhandled now. “What about the others? We can’t just leave them behind!”

“Healers were already starting to do their work. Assuming they survive, they’ll be taken to the hospital for further evaluation,” the councilor said.

“ _Assuming they survive?!”_ Margot exclaimed. “What is that supposed to mean? What in the world is going on here? Where is Councilor Fairchild?”

“Keep your voice down,” the aide who cast the spell hissed. “We’re not soundproof.”

“Councilor Fairchild has taken an alternate route to a safe house, and to be frank I have no more idea of what’s going on than you.” Councilor King paused as the group were ushered into a waiting carriage. Margot dug her heels and refused to be moved.

“I’m not getting in that thing until I get some answers,” Margot said calmly. “What aren’t you telling me, and why do you think I’m in danger?”

Councilor King grit his teeth in frustration. Leaning half in, and half out of the carriage, he said, “Miriam Caldwell was responsible for organizing this inspection and she’s dead, probably murdered. Now on the first day where our full team is arrived and starting to work, two of our three mages suddenly collapse. _At the same time._ Is that enough of an answer for you?”

He sighed, and then said shamefaced, “We were warned and didn’t listen. I’m sorry. All I can do is try my best to make sure you don’t get hurt.” He extended a hand. “Now will you please come with me? Lucinda will be waiting at a safe location, but there’s something I want to check first.”

“And what would that be?” Margot asked.

“I think you might be Cursed, and there’s only one person in this city I trust to find out for certain.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, and Councilor King’s pleading expression did not waver. “You’re serious,” Margot said, not believing the words even as they came out of her mouth. Any minute now someone would pop out from the alley and say this was an elaborate practical joke. There was no way this could be real.

Margot took his hand and allowed him to help her into the carriage, and a moment later it jerked into motion. Councilor King and his aides were deathly silent. Finally the reality of what was happening sunk in and Margot couldn’t help but laugh even as her stomach sank. They stared at her as if she'd gone mad, and Margot covered her eyes with a hand and allowed her head to rest against the back of the seat. 

“Struttford was right. Y’all know how to treat your mages, don’t you?”


	5. Interlude: A Year and a Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m trying something a little different with how I structure this story, so please bear with me as I figure out what the heck I’m doing. I promise there’s information in this chapter that’s relevant to the main plot.

Clara Stillwater knew something was wrong when the package returned unopened.

It had been a paltry gesture, really, sending a present to Bryony’s daughter for the occasion of her eleventh birthday. She had not sent anything for her tenth. Not with it being so soon after her parents’ deaths.

But a year...a year was long enough. The quarantines were over and the Red Death a fading nightmare. The city would heal in time, after the politicians finished their finger-pointing and squabbling to actually be of any use. Already there were talks of demolishing the infamous Rend River Way, where slumlords held the poor and the desperate by their throats and criminals bred like rats in a sewer. Families of ten or more would cram into tenements meant for two with no light or ventilation, while myths of healers who caused illness for profit were commonplace. Disease and poverty were inescapable realities of daily life, and mages were despised.

This was the population most vulnerable to the devastation wrought by the epidemic, and this was the population that suffered the most at its hands. And if this assault on their health wasn’t enough, the loss of dignity caused by forced evictions was sure to cement their place as the city’s most wretched and pitiable creatures.

Clara did not typically involve herself in politics, but for this she made an exception. Bryony and her husband would not have died if not for the discontent and disparity between Osford’s elite and its poor. She came into the process expecting little and was still disappointed that the Council of Mages seemed to view the less fortunate as some kind of infestation to be eradicated rather than people with hopes and dreams and needs of their own.

For a year she tried, and for a year she bashed her head against an immovable wall. Clara knew a lost cause when she saw one, and it was time to turn her attention to other matters.

Namely finding Eliza Nightingale.

It seemed like a simple enough task at the time. Clara knew the girl had been sent to live with Bryony’s aunt—who Clara remembered Bryony describing as a shrill, harpy of a woman who wasn’t well-liked within the family but nevertheless had the means to care for a child. Clara even knew the woman’s address, but decided to start with the package. It seemed safer, somehow, for her first overture to be a small one.

When the package was returned, she sent a letter. The response was short and to the point: Eliza was no longer living under the aunt’s care. If Clara wished to see her again, she would have to speak to Bryony’s cousin, who agreed some months previous to take the girl in.

There was no explanation as to why, no indication of Eliza’s health, and no forwarding address. To say Clara was devastated was to say that Wizards were serviceable at magic or the Red Death an unpleasant head cold. Bryony had been more than a student to her; she was Clara’s protégée and eventual successor within the Order. They met at a time in Clara’s life when she was beginning to second-guess her decision never to marry, and Bryony was an eager, fresh-faced novice struggling with her family’s disapproval of her chosen field of study.

Clara had never seen such a combination of stubborn determination, and compassion before or since. Of the Order’s younger generation, Bryony was the only one she could see one day taking over as Master of Masters. When Clara said as much, just days before the Red Death broke out throughout the city, she laughed. There was no reason to think that far down the road when there were so many things that needed to be attended to in the present.

That memory, and so many like it, haunted her to this day.

Clara knew Bryony’s family’s opinions on their chosen craft were unflattering at best, and if they told her they wanted young Eliza to have nothing to do with the Order she would have respected their wishes. But they hadn’t said that, and so her search continued. Clara scoured old letters from Bryony to find the names of the cousins in question, and managed to track down an address. Another inquiry was sent, and the response was just as curt: Eliza was no longer staying with them. She would have to try Edwin’s parents.

This posed a greater challenge. Clara was friendly enough with Bryony’s husband, but they had never been particularly close and she knew next to nothing about his family. She took a chance and wrote back to the cousins if they had any idea how she might get into contact, and was amazed when they responded with an address.

By now Clara was beginning to feel anxious about Eliza’s safety and wellbeing. Shuffling an orphan between relatives wasn’t uncommon, per say, but it worried her that Eliza had been sent to three different homes within the last year. She decided to take her largest gamble yet, and asked if she could meet with Edwin’s parents face to face.

Days later, Clara found herself standing outside a small cottage on the outskirts of one of the villages situated outside of the city. It was well-kept and homey, if one could overlook the overgrown lawn and the siding in fresh need of a new coat of paint. She was greeted by a gentleman about her age with an uncanny resemblance to Edwin and was quickly ushered inside.

“I’m sorry, Master Stilwell. My wife is feeling unwell today, and I’ve not got the hand for hosting she does.”

The elder Mr. Nightingale set out a chipped tea set with hands that shook, and Clara noticed his shuffling, awkward gait with clinical detachment. The man was likely in no better health than his wife. How were they able to care for a child?

“I heard from Charles that you were asking over Eliza,” Mr Nightingale said. “I take it you knew the girl before...before?”

Clara didn’t think it was appropriate to inform him she had been present at Eliza’s birth, and instead said, “I was a colleague of Bryony’s. We served together in the quarantine.”

“Ah. That it explains it then.” He ran his hands through thinning grey hair, his eyes dropping in shame. “She’s not here, Master Stilwell. We sent her off to Ed’s brother two months ago.”

“Excuse me?” Clara said. “You could have told me before now. What’s his name and I’ll—“

“She’s not with him either,” Mr. Nightingale interrupted.

“Then where is she?” Clara demanded, her temper quickly fraying. “What is going on here? I’ve gone in circles just to get this far, and I don’t understand why you all are playing hot potato with a _child_. Eliza is your _granddaughter_. Don’t any of you realize how upsetting it is to constantly resettle after all that’s happened? Why isn’t she here?”

“We tried, Master Stilwell, I swear by the gods we tried. But there’s something wrong with that child.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “She’d wake the neighborhood all hours of the night screaming. I couldn’t take care of her and my wife both. I thought Titus would have better luck with her, but she nearly set his house on fire with that blasted magic.”

“On purpose?” Clara asked.

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Nightingale said, “but after what happened to her...I don’t know. There’s no mistaking that she’s cracked or addled or worse. There was nothing more we could do for her, and she couldn’t stay. Not with Titus having little ones of his own.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Clara said. “I personally assessed Eliza after the attack. Physically speaking there was nothing wrong with her.”

Mr. Nightingale looked at her, misery etched into every crevice of his face. “All due respect, Master Stilwell, but I wouldn’t be so sure.”

* * *

Clara’s journey ended three blocks from where it began.

Frustrated, confused, and sick with worry, she looked up at the towering building that was the Merrifield Home for Orphaned, Foundling, and Unwanted Children. It was handsome enough, built recently enough that the red bricks were still pristine compared to its neighbors, which took on a dingy quality after years existing in the smog-filled streets. Strangely enough, the cleanliness wiped away any facade of normalcy and made it feel more like an institution than the sign over the barred gate already did. Clara’s heart sank as she walked down the stone pathway. There were no children outside playing. It was as silent as a grave.

Once inside the receptionist ushered her to the matron’s office. Clara caught a glimpse of a classroom in session, and passed by a boy and a girl giggling in the hallway, both wearing the distinctive pox scars the Red Death left behind. A second girl was seated outside the matron’s office with a book in her lap, quietly ignored by the receptionist as she knocked on the matron’s door.

“Master Stilwell to see you, ma’am.”

“Please come in. And leave the door open. It gets so _stuffy_ this time of year.”

Clara settled on the opposite side of the matron, a large desk stretching between them like the yawning mouth of a chasm. The matron reshuffled a stack of parchment before greeting Clara with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Good afternoon, Master Stilwell. It’s not often we’re graced with such a distinguished guest.”

“Please, let’s forego the formalities,” Clara said. “I haven’t the time for them, and I suspect neither do you. I would like to see one of your charges by the name of Eliza Nightingale.”

“And what is your interest with Miss Nightingale?”

“I am her healer and a friend of her late mother. I would like to examine her if at all possible.”

The matron’s lips pursed together into a thin line. “That’s highly irregular. You’re not listed on any of her documentation.”

Clara pulled the silver medallion from under her scapular, her eyes narrowing. “My credentials.”

The matron reached over the desk and touched the silver disc with a glowing finger. It flashed white, proving that Clara was who she said she was. The matron settled back into her chair, her lips as thin as ever.

“It’s highly irregular.”

For a moment the only sound was of the clock ticking in the background.

“I was working in the quarantine when Eliza was sent to her great-aunt. I had no idea she was even here until recently. I have a letter of introduction from her grandfather if you’re still not convinced.” Clara Conjured a sheet of parchment. “It’s standard procedure for all of my patients to be seen yearly, and Eliza is overdue,” she added when she saw the matron remained unmoved, stretching the truth as far as it would go without bending it into a lie.

“Miss Nightingale was assessed by our facility healer upon admission,” the matron said primly. “You may have a copy of the results for your records. There is no need to cause her any undue distress.”

You’re _causing_ me _undue distress_ , Clara thought, fighting to keep her frustration from showing. “Eliza is my patient. You can’t keep me from seeing her.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that I can,” the matron said. “Miss Nightingale’s family has given up all rights. She is a ward of the State, and without any legal documentation providing the girl’s diseased parents wished for you specifically to oversee her care I have no reason to oblige you in this manner.”

The anger, simmering just under the surface, nearly boiled over, and Clara felt her expression harden.

“I know your type,” the matron continued. “Shame on you for attempting to take advantage of a young girl for your own nefarious means.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you think you’re the only mage that’s come around trying to poach students?” the matron asked. “I’ll admit your story is more sophisticated than most, but as I told the School of Artificing and the Stonemason’s Guild, Miss Nightingale is _not_ for sale.”

The accusation struck Clara like a physical blow. “...What?”

The matron chuckled darkly. “Oh ho! Did you think you were cleverer than all the rest? That you were the only school to trawl through orphanage records for potential students to be trained on city coin? I’m helpless to stop it in most cases, but Miss Nightingale is _not_ most cases. Even if she showed magical potential before her parents’ deaths, she’s not competent to train as a mage.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Clara protested. “She’s a bright girl, and her mother tutored her as soon as she showed signs of magical ability. She was well ahead of most children her age.” She shook her head. “Besides, I’m not here to train her. I just want to make sure she’s healthy and well.”

“I have a difficult time believing that, Master Stilwell,” the matron said.

“ _Why?_ Why is it so difficult to believe that a healer would want to see one of her patients?”

“Because you just walked past her didn’t give her a second glance.

It took precious seconds for Clara to comprehend the matron’s words. Then she jolted to her feet and ran out of the woman’s office. The girl was still sitting outside, book sitting open in her lap. Even with her shoulders rolled in and her head dropped, there was no mistaking her identity.

“Eliza?”

The girl shrank on herself even more.

Clara kneeled down beside her as the matron settled in the doorway. The doorway she had purposefully kept open so Eliza could hear every word she said. Clara glared at her hatefully, but only for a moment. There were more important things to attend to than the inflated ego of a priggish orphanage matron.

“Good afternoon, Eliza. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Eliza’s fingers curled around the edges of her book, the only acknowledgement she gave of the greeting. Clara almost asked if she remembered who she was, but couldn’t bring herself to do so. She’d known Eliza since she was a baby. Of course she remembered.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last visit. I...” Clara’s voice died as Eliza looked up at her, her brown eyes wide and mournful. Absent was the spark of mischief that reminded Clara so much of her mother. It was difficult to tell with her sitting down, but she seemed small for eleven, and her face too thin.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“I...I don’t know,” Clara’s mouth said before her mind could fully process the question, or wonder why Eliza felt the need to ask it. Behind her the matron gasped, but Clara made no effort to amend her statement. Too many adults lied to children in a misguided effort to protect them. “But I would like to find out, if you’ll let me.”

Relief coursed through Eliza’s entire being, and for a moment Clara thought she might cry. “Can you make the nightmare’s go away?”

“Nightmares?” Clara asked, looking to the matron for clarification.

“A common attention-seeking behavior,” The matron said dismissively. “With proper structure and discipline they’ve nearly subsided entirely.”

Eliza shook her head, but her body had gone rigid as a plank of wood. Clara asked, “Is there any place where I might speak to her in private?”

“I fail to see—“

“I can’t very well conduct my examination outside your office,” Clara said sharply. “It is a violation of the City Board of Health—a committee which I am part—to deny a patient privacy and respect, a right which I’m sure I don’t need to inform you extends to those who are underage. A room, if you please. I won’t ask again.”

The matron’s face flushed a delicate shade of puce. “I won’t have you conduct your black magic on one of my charges without another party present!”

That was the final straw. Drawing herself up to her full height, Clara brought herself inches from the terrified matron’s face. Some distant part of her that was still thinking rationally knew that she was nothing but a small-minded paper pusher, dedicated enough to the children in her care to protect them from the most toxic parts of Osford’s mage society.

The rest of her was furious.

“Then by all means join us,” Clara said, her voice icy cold, “but I swear by any deity who cares to listen that if you don’t shut up and let me carry out my examination I will file every complaint I can think of with the Board of Mages and drag you through a bureaucratic hell that will make you wish you never saw an orphaned child in your life.”

Only the awareness that Eliza was still sitting behind her stopped Clara from saying any more, and the threat has its intended effect. They were quickly ushered to an unused classroom that Clara rearranged with a flick of the wrist, closing window shades and pushing desks to the perimeter of the room. Another sharp gesture summoned the teacher’s chair to where they were standing.

Clara sat Eliza in the stool and tried to reassure her with a smile, but it did little good. She was frightened and confused, and Clara was immediately ashamed of her outburst. Sitting opposite her and leaving the matron to her own devices, Clara said in a low voice, “You’ve done nothing wrong, Eliza. I’ve been searching for you for quite some time, and it’s left me with a short temper. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been looking for me?” Eliza asked, daring to look up at her.

“Not as long as I should have been, but yes. I spoke with your grandfather not too long ago; he’s the one who led me here. The nightmares haven’t gone away, have they?”

Eliza squirmed in her chair, just like she used to when she was in trouble.

“How often, Eliza?” Clara asked gently. Eliza ducked her head and mumbled something incoherent. Clara leaned in closer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She mumbled again.

“Every night?” Clara asked. “You have bad dreams every night?”

Hesitantly, Eliza nodded, and Clara let out a slow, steady breath through her teeth. Forcing another smile, she said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

“You’re in them, sometimes,” Eliza said suddenly, desperately. “I see you when you came before.”

“Before...? You mean after your parents died?”

With jerking motions, Eliza nodded once more. She had gone very white, each breath hitched and shallow. Clara was experienced enough to recognize when someone was working themselves up into a panic.

“Eliza, I need you to stay with me for just a little longer,” Clara said. She reached into her pocket and found a small vial peppermint extract she ordinarily reserved for swooning ladies, and unceremoniously thrust it under her nose. Eliza jolted at the pungent smell, and the vacant, glassy look in her eye vanished, her mind snapping back from whatever haunted her.

“Deep breaths, Eliza,” Clara said in a low tone. Putting the vial away, she took Eliza’s hands in hers and forced the girl to look at her. “Slow and steady now.”

As Clara guided her through the breathing exercise she rubbed her thumb and middle finger together as if snapping. With the faintest whisper of magic she gave herself the magical equivalent of a paper cut, drawing a single drop of blood.

She murmured the calming spell, and the tension left Eliza as quickly as it came. “Very good,” Clara said. “You’re being very brave. Would it be all right if I examined you now? It’s the only way to know for certain you’re healthy.”

“Will it hurt?” Eliza asked.

“No, love, it won’t hurt. I promise you won’t feel anything at all.”

Eliza nodded drowsily, and for the first time Clara noticed how utterly exhausted she looked. Of course, chronic night terrors would make it difficult to sleep for any length of time. It would also explain the screaming episodes that led her to being shuffled between relatives in the first place.

“Are you nearly finished?” the matron asked crossly.

“I asked for silence,” Clara said. “Please, just let me work in peace.”

Clara drew up two more drops of blood in the same manner she had before. She wished for the spells worked into her athame, but doubted either Eliza or the matron would approve of her drawing her blade. Instead she settled for the unaided blood magic that allowed her to expedite the examination while still being thorough.

Low and steady, Clara whispered a spell while placing two fingers on the pulse in Eliza’s wrist. She let her magic follow the flow through her veins, sensing for any abnormalities along the body’s natural pathways. It took only a minute for a drop of blood to make a full circuit, starting and ending with the heart, and soon Clara had a general idea of Eliza’s health.

At first glance there was nothing out of place. All the major organs were functioning as they should have been, and after the calming spell all of the life signs were within normal limits. But something felt...off. Clara had been a healer for nearly twenty years, eleven with Eliza as her patient. Hells, she was the one who conducted her examination after Bryony and Edwin were found dead. She hated that memory. Eliza had been catatonic, with a dead-eyed stare not often seen outside of combat veterans. Bryony’s magic protected her even then, the vestiges of her death spell warding her from any dark magic.

Everything had been fine then, just as it was now. But that didn’t explain the nightmares. Clara would have been shocked if Eliza _didn’t_ suffer from the occasional bad dream after all she’d been through, but every night? For more than a _year?_

Clara pulled back from Eliza and tried to think through the matter rationally. The investigators looking into the Nightingale murders concluded that the man who killed Bryony and Edwin died from self-induced magical exertion, yet none of the vestigial spellwork found at the scene could be traced back to him, a fact that had always struck Clara as odd. The overwhelming majority of trace magic belonged to Bryony, with a few miscellaneous scraps from the standard household protections. It was difficult to tell how many spells Bryony wove in her final moments, but knowing her exhaustion from working the quarantine it couldn’t have been many.

The last of these was undoubtedly the magic she placed over Eliza. Clara hesitated to even call it a spell, more the chaotic force of Bryony’s will than any technique taught by their Order. It stuck to Eliza for the hours it took for Clara to be called from the quarantine, both to identify Bryony’s body and aid investigators in untangling what in the world happened at that modest two-story house in the center of the city.

Blood magic was by nature wildly unpredictable when used under duress, and a blood mage’s death spell was doubly so. Clara had never felt anything like Bryony’s last act of magic in her entire life, and likely never would again. So what if the unique nature of this strange phenomena caused uniquely strange results?

Moving slowly as to not frighten either Eliza or the matron, Clara reached for her athame. The pit of dread settled more deeply into her stomach when she realized the horrible possibility that she had somehow overlooked.

Moments later this fear was confirmed. Clara managed to fumble her way into releasing Eliza back into the matron’s care with the promise she would visit another day with her final report and before rushing to the nearest restroom. She vomited copiously into the toilet, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.

Bryony would never forgive her for this.

And even if she did, Clara wasn’t sure she would be able to forgive herself.

* * *

The sun was starting to set by the time Clara returned to the Enclave. She avoided the dormitories where most of her friends and colleagues would be getting ready for the evening meal, her feet taking her to the greenhouses at the back of the property without her mind consciously realizing where she was going.

It was warm and humid inside the glass houses, and once the door was shut the business of the city faded away. Someone had spelled it so music played softly in the background—which the more attendant gardeners insisted helped the plants grow, and the rest thought amusing enough not to question.

Clara didn’t want music now. She snapped her fingers and silence reigned, save for the faint buzzing of a few industrious insects. Then she collapsed into the nearest chair, too emotionally spent to even cry.

Clara was sure there would be plenty of self-flagellating later, but at the moment she felt numb. It was like hearing Bryony had died all over again, only this time she was at fault, and there was little she could do to make right the wrong she committed.

It was impossible to say how long she sat there before hearing the slow, deliberate steps of Grand Master Weisman. The septuagenarian poked her head through the entranceway and said, “I thought I’d find you here. Have I interrupted some important meeting with yourself?”

“I’ve come from the constable’s office.”

“Had young Miss Nightingale been detained?” Master Weisman asked, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.

“I’ve also gone to the Board of Health.”

At once the humor vanished from Master Weisman’s face. She pulled up an additional chair and settled down next to her. “Whatever for?”

“It was a mandatory report. For a Curse.” Clara rubbed her eyes as they started to burn. She wasn’t going to fall to pieces now. Not with the Master of Masters sitting right next to her. “I missed it after the murder, and now it’s too late to break. It’s been over a year and no one noticed, because I wrote on her file that no dark magic had been cast.”

“File or not, Curses aren’t exactly known for their subtly,” Master Weisman said, the line between her eyebrows deepening. 

“It must have been Bryony. Her spell partially broke the Curse and then masked what remained. It’s the only explanation I can think of that makes any sense. Even now I nearly didn’t catch it, and I was _looking_ for something to be wrong.”

“I’ve never heard of a half-broken Curse,” Master Weisman said. “Are you sure?”

“I have no doubt in my mind. The grandfather said she’s had terrible nightmares ever since Bryony and Edwin died. I can’t be sure without an expert assessment, but I think the killer cast Zephyr’s Bane. And if not that, then something similar.”

“Trapping the victim in a living nightmare until they die,” Master Weisman said, realization dawning on her. “That’s old magic.”

“Old and outdated,” Clara said. She took a deep breath. “Not to mention used in our literature as an example of the dangers of blood magic when in the wrong hands. It’s been studied enough to be easily broken by anyone who knows what they’re doing, and the internment period is a year and a day, provided the victim live that long. It _should_ have been broken.”

She fell silent, Master Weisman grave and contemplative. The longer the silence stretched the heavier Clara’s heart became. It would have been better if Master Weisman berated her for incompetence. The uncertainty that filled the cracks of the disquiet was almost more than she could bear.

Slowly Master Weisman stood, her bad knee creaking disagreeably as she did so. “Do you know if Zephyr’s Bane was in any of the material stolen from our libraries?”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.”

“Then I must find out for certain and the Council of Mages notified of the threat to the public’s safety.”

She started toward the greenhouse entrance, and Clara cried out, “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Eliza Nightingale will have to live with night terrors for the rest of her life, and it’s all my fault.”

Master Weisman tilted her head, as if puzzled. “Clara, did you cast that Curse?”

“What? No, of course not—“

“Then you cannot be at fault. You made a grave oversight, but an an understandable once given the circumstances.” Her expression soured. “And I hazard you haven’t been the only healer that child has seen since her parents’ deaths, and statistically speaking at least one of them would have examined her after Bryony’s magic was purged from her system.”

“It should have been me,” Clara said, defeated. “I should have followed up...”

“Clara Stilwell, get a grip of yourself. You were serving in a quarantine. It was unfair of the authorities to send for you in the first place when I know from your own reports that you were seeing upwards of fifty patients a day both before and after Bryony’s murder. And before you tell me you should have known better than to conduct Eliza’s examination while so fatigued, may I remind you that there wasn’t a rested healer in this entire city. If Bryony’s magic was truly shielding the Curse then chances of an accurate diagnosis were infinitesimal, regardless of who the healer was. Eliza knew you. She trusted _you_. Do you think she would have done any better with a stranger, alone and afraid and hurting?”

That made it sound so much worse, and Master Weisman must have known because she said in a much softer tone, “You have given Eliza a name for what ails her. Perhaps this Curse can’t be broken, but nightmares can be managed. There is nothing that can be done to right the wrongs of the past. The only question remains is what will we do going forward.”

Before Clara could respond there was a knock on the greenhouse door. Both women turned to look as a man dressed in a constable’s uniform stepped sheepishly through the entrance. Master Weisman shuffled near Clara and asked, “Do you know him?”

There was something familiar about his face, but that was likely due to the fact that whoever he was was decidedly average in appearance, without a single feature Clara could identify as memorable or unique. She shook her head, utterly bewildered.

“Excuse me, ladies,” the man said, removing his hat. “Someone at the gate told me where to find you. I’m Inspector Briggs. I know it’s highly irregular, and pardon me for intruding at this hour, but I had to know. Is the news true?”

“What news?” Master Weisman asked.

“Pardon me, I’m getting ahead of myself. One of the boys said there was new information on the Nightingale case. I...I was the one Mr. Nightingale worked with on all those murders a year ago. Nasty business it was. I told him again and again to be careful—he was a writer for the papers, you know. Made his living sticking his neck where it didn’t belong, and he paid for it.”

Inspector Briggs looked down at his feet. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I just...I need to know if it’s true. Was his girl cursed?”

“It will need to be confirmed by someone more versed in that field, but all indications say that she was,” Clara said.

He swore softly. “After all this time, I never would have thought...” He swallowed hard. “It’s a damn shame that she would be the one to suffer. I met her once, you know. Was a handful, that one. Mr. Nightingale adored her.”

“Yes, well. I’ve told the authorities everything I know,” Clara said stiffly. “I don’t know if it will be of any help.”

“New information is always of help,” Inspector Briggs said. “My only regret is I’ll not be here to see how it all turns out.”

“Where are you going?” Clara asked.

The inspector’s jaw tightened. “I’m ashamed to say it, but I’ve not been myself since that Nightingale case. I never met the wife, but I respected Mr. Nightingale, you know, one non-mage to another. I’ve met a lot of awful people in this world because of my job, but he wasn’t one of them. It shouldn’t have been him.”

He sighed. “It’s funny. He sent me a message the day he died saying he thought his wife could help solve the case. Said something about blood magic being the key. I didn’t understand it, but the killer must have been watching the house and known the game was up.”

Clara and Master Weisman shared a look. “This is the first we’ve heard about this,” Master Weisman ventured carefully.

“It was kept under wraps by the department, and in any case it doesn’t matter. The killer’s dead, and the murders have stopped. With everything else going on there was no point wasting resources on a case that had basically solved itself.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Clara asked.

Inspector Brigg’s gaze sharpened, dark grey eyes like flecks of flint. “Do you think I’d be here if I did? There’s no way a layman could learn a curse like that without help.” He smiled bitterly and replaced his hat on his head. “But, hey, what’s a mundie know about magic anyway? There’s no sense rocking the boat when the powers that be feel like sticking their fingers in their ears and singing ‘la de da’ when someone like me comes around spouting opinions. I know when I’m not wanted, so I might as well go someplace where I might do some good.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Clara said, and Inspector Briggs only shrugged.

“It only takes a few bad apples to ruin the barrel, an unfortunately those are the people in charge. The whole city’s gone rotten. The Nightingale case is only a symptom of the disease. I can’t stand it, and I won’t.” His expression softened. “Sorry, I’m rambling again. Thanks for telling me. The wife was one of yours, wasn’t she?”

Clara could only nod.

Inspector Briggs winced sympathetically. “One of your own done in by blood magic. That’s gotta sting.”

* * *

It did more than sting. Clara laid awake half the night spell-shocked by the revelation. She had never told anyone, not even Master Weisman, that she was the one to send Bryony home when it was clear she was no longer fit to serve in the quarantine. It was one of the few times they’d argued, and the _only_ time Clara had to pull rank in order to force Bryony to put her own health ahead of her patient’s.

For the past year Clara had taken the tiniest sliver of comfort that without Bryony, Eliza likely would have died by the same hand that killed her father. As much as Clara mourned her student, who she had grown to love like a daughter, she knew Bryony would have wanted Eliza to live. It was a cruel thing for a parent to survive their child, and this way Bryony was there in the time of Eliza’s greatest need.

But if the killer only attacked because Edwin thought Bryony could somehow help solve the murders, then by insisting Bryony go home Clara had unwittingly damned the entire family. It wasn’t a rational thought, and it wasn’t fair, but guilt seldom was. It squeezed her insides like python and left her feeling physically ill. The heaviness on her chest only worsened when she wondered what terrible dreams were plaguing Eliza that night.

Nightmares that Clara could have stopped had she found Eliza sooner.

Whether Master Weisman would admit it or not, there was no doubting Clara was partially to blame for Eliza’s current condition. She had left her, for more than a year, in the care of family she knew would not understand her because of her magic. Clara waited, for more than a year, before reaching out to a girl she knew to be alone and hurting.

Busyness had nothing to do with it. Clara had been afraid. Afraid of Bryony’s family, afraid of seeing Eliza, afraid of facing the reality of her own loss. She pushed aside what she knew was right because it hurt too much to think of Bryony’s daughter growing up with the same people who nearly disowned her for choosing to study blood magic all those years ago.

For more than a year Clara’s grief had been a silent, hidden thing, ignored in favor of the more pressing issues left behind by the Red Death. It was so much easier to face other people’s problems than to deal with the gaping loss left in her life.

There were soul healers more equipped to deal with the trauma Eliza Nightingale carried. Perhaps that’s what she needed, more than Clara’s pathetic attempts to assuage her own guilt.

_There is nothing that can be done to right the wrongs of the past. The only question remains is what will we do going forward._

The problem was Clara didn’t know what she could do, and it was with that unhappy thought that she drifted into an uneasy slumber, haunted by nightmares of her own.

* * *

The second trip to the orphanage was just as difficult as the first. Clara was at least granted a private room to speak with Bryony’s daughter, free from even the matron’s watchful eyes. A specialist had already confirmed Eliza’s Curse, crushing the last strand of hope that she had of somehow been mistaken. 

Clara broke the news herself. Eliza sat quietly as she spoke, giving no indication how much she understood and asking no questions. It killed Clara to see the vivacious child she once knew reduced to a shadow of her former self. Perhaps with time she could recover a portion of that fire, but Clara knew instinctively that she would never be the same.

But different did not mean _less_ , and when Clara finished her talk she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small box wrapped in bright paper. “I know this isn’t the best of times, but I have been meaning to give this to you. I’m sorry for not making it in time for your birthday.”

Eliza took the box, and with a bit of prompting unwrapped it. She opened the plain wooden case and pulled out a copper medallion fastened to a length of ribbon.

“It was your mother’s,” Clara said, smiling despite herself. “I tried to convince her go on for her Mastery, but she never did.”

“Why?” Eliza asked, tearing her gaze from the shining medallion in her hand.

“She was happy with what she had. A Mastery takes a great deal of time and effort to obtain, and I think she preferred to spend that time with her family. She and your father loved you very, very much. I hope you know that.”

Eliza held the necklace close to her chest. She blinked rapidly to keep from crying, and asked, “Will you teach me?”

“You’re a little young for blood magic,” Clara said, her heart breaking in two as Eliza crumpled at the rejection. Hesitantly, unsure if she was doing the right thing, Clara lifted her head with a hand, using her thumb to wipe away a tear before tucking a strand of hair behind Eliza’s ear.

“I didn’t say never, but right now there are more important things that need addressed. I promise to do everything in my power to undo the mistake I’ve made, starting with helping you sleep through the night.” She looked Eliza in the eye and smiled.

“That is, if you’re willing to let me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with The Murder of Arthur Wright, I’m using this story as an excuse to write about an OC of mine that I’ve had running around in my head for a very long time. Eliza Nightingale was once a major character in my knock-off version of Harry Potter, joining a girl who’d accidentally wished herself invisible by a less-than-benevolent djinn during a major family crisis, the sole survivor of a magical plague (which I’ve also transported here. Recycling is good for both the environment and stories), a kid with enough latent magical ability to destroy a small country and absolutely zero ability to control it, and a werewolf whose only means of manage their transformations was a silver amulet that was slowly poisoning her. 
> 
> It was a fun story. 
> 
> This Eliza is different from that Eliza both in age and backstory, but the basic concept is the same. The thing is, as young as I was at the time I first conceived her, I never connected “girl is literally cursed with chronic nightmares after witnessing her parents be brutally murdered” with “PTSD/trauma survivor”. 
> 
> I typically don’t like allegory in my stories because it feels unnecessarily constrictive and inevitably the comparison gets muddled along the way. DotL is a fantasy story were magic is common and it’s possible for a Wizard to transform into a dragon to do an impromptu therapy session in an evil demon frog summoned from the pits of hell. There are some things that just don’t translate to real life.
> 
> But if there’s one thing that does translate it’s the human element, and with that being said I think it’s important for a writer to at least be aware of the themes and ideas they’ve put into their works. I’m doing my best to be true to the characters as written and responsibly address the ideas I’ve chosen to explore. 
> 
> To help with this I’ve been reading The Body Keeps Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, which is an excellent resource for anyone interested in better understanding how trauma affects the whole person, and things that can be done to help one recover from traumatic events. Any remaining mistakes and missteps are my own, and as I said at the beginning I’m open to criticism when constructive and fair.
> 
> Sorry for another long note, but I wouldn’t be saying this if it weren’t important to me. Thanks for sticking with me for this meandering side story. I promise next chapter we’ll get back to the good stuff.


	6. The Order of the Red Dawn

The one thought that ran through Margot’s mind over and over was that she didn’t feel Cursed. She confirmed this fact after spending the first minutes of her journey taking inventory of her senses, wiggling her fingers and tapping her toes just to see if anything felt off. Nothing did. She felt horribly unlucky, but _luck_ was as subjective a concept as there was. One might say Margot was quite fortunate indeed to have survived all that she had in the last year. It was pure chance she hadn’t been standing with Struttford and Ó Canain when they fell victim to the supposed attack.

Troubled, Margot sat back in her seat. True Curses, the sort that showed up in fairy tales and stories, were as rare and dangerous branch of dark magic there was, often as hazardous to the perpetrator as the victim. Margot was no expert, but she always assumed it was impossible to cast that sort of magic without people noticing. Namely the ones being Cursed.

But the councilor sounded so _sure_. Even if he was wrong, it said something that he was so worried.

“You said you were warned,” Margot said, breaking the brittle silence. “Who would want to stop the inspections from taking place?”

Councilor King shifted uneasily in his seat. “I don’t know. Truly I don’t.”

He sounded so sincere that Margot almost believed him. “Why do you think I’m Cursed?”

One of his aides glowered at the question, but Councilor King waved him off. “Have you ever experienced an epidemic, Professor? A true, honest-to-gods plague?”

“Not to the extent you have, but I was there when they converted the Academy into an emergency hospital during a particularly bad influenza season a few years back.”

“It’s difficult to understand how that kind of hardship affects people if you’ve never experienced it firsthand. Even now you hear of great acts of sacrifice and heroism told in the same breath as all the terrible atrocities. The best and the worst of humanity living side by side.”

Reminded of the Drath attack and its consequences, Margot nodded her understanding.

“Towards the end of the epidemic the authorities were faced with a worse atrocity than most,” Councilor King continued. “Mages started dying. _Murdered,_ each within sight of the quarantine where the Red Death struck the worst. At first it was assumed that they were revenge killings—common folk taking out their frustrations on the people they perceived to be responsible for the suffering.”

“I take it it wasn’t that simple?” Margot said.

“No. Whoever did the deed was smart enough to dump the bodies in areas concentrated with purifying magic without being seen, making it impossible for the authorities to use their usual techniques to trace the killer. It was too sophisticated a plan not to be premeditated.” Councilor King rubbed his temple. “And then he did it again. And again. And _again,_ growing more brazen with every murder. I was only a boy, but I remember the panic when a body was hung in the public fountain in Rend River Way.”

“A dead mage in the water polluted by mages,” Margot said softly. “That’s certainly one way to send a message, but what does it have to do with Curses?”

“The fountain incident caught the attention of a journalist who partnered with the official investigation, helping dig into things that the authorities couldn’t, or didn’t have the resources to look into. We think he made a breakthrough that would have solved the case for good, but he ended up dead.”

“Cursed?” Margot asked.

“Attempted curse. At least, that’s the prevailing thought,” Councilor King said. “The perpetrator ended up dead, leaving a great deal unanswered, and all leads died with the journalist. The murders stopped, and we thought the matter was closed.”

Margot hummed thoughtfully. Her fingers beat a staccato rhythm against the seat of the carriage as she let this new information percolate in her mind. “You said the Council had been warned. About what, exactly?”

For the first time something close to embarrassment flashed across the councilor’s face, or perhaps it was shame. Both he and his aides looked reluctant to answer, but that only made Margot more interested in their response. She fixed him them a steady gaze that brooked no compromise, keeping her expression as neutral as possible. She wasn’t asking, not really, and Councilor King knew that just as much as she did.

“It’s been twenty years, but there are people who are still suffering from the aftereffects of the Death, and there are still people who are very, _very_ angry. You see things from time to time, hear rumors and threats. It becomes part of the background, like an annoying fly buzzing in your ear. Except there was something about them this time…it felt different. They referenced the murders, not the plague. It made me uneasy.”

“But you ignored it,” Margot said.

“I’m the most junior member of our council, both in age and in time served,” he replied. “I was told that the threats were par the course, and that I shouldn’t worry.”

It was impossible to tell if the young councilor was being truthful, trying to shift the blame elsewhere, or some combination of the two. Either way, Margot was still livid. “You didn’t warn us. You didn’t let us decide for ourselves whether or not to take precautions, or even if we wanted to participate in the inspections.”

“I don’t know what else to say, except that I am deeply sorry,” Councilor King said. He sounded genuinely distraught, but that meant little when Margot didn’t know if Struttford and Ó Canain were even alive. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Who would want to stop us from ensuring a mistake like the Red Death doesn’t happen again?”

Margot crossed her arms across her chest. “I guess that’s what we’re going to have to find out.”

* * *

The carriage stopped at the edge of a gated property that stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of a wealthy neighborhood. With a quaint park on one side and a house almost—but not quite—large enough to qualify as a mansion on the other, the unwelcoming grey walls with wrought iron spikes protruding from them were something of an eyesore. It was not a small property, but three buildings crowded around the perimeter in the form of a C, with two glass greenhouses crammed in the center.

“Order of the Red Dawn,” Margot said, reading the brass lettering on the gate, which also noted its establishing date some two centuries previous. “What in the world is that?”

“Osford’s school for blood magic. There are only a few left in the civilized world,” Councilor King said.

There was a reason for that. Margot shifted from foot to foot as the councilor whispered a word to his aides, and then the driver before joining her. He pushed open the gate, which was unlocked but made the hair on Margot’s neck stand on end. _Magic._ Whoever was inside would know they were coming.

The councilor guided her to the building that made the top of the C, which according to a convenient sign was called Domokos Hall. A secretary startled at their entrance, straightening at the sight of Councilor King.

“Good morning,” he said smoothly. “Is Master Stilwell in?”

“Um, yes. Yes she is.” The secretary jumped to her feet. She wore a black scapular fastened snugly at the waist with a black leather belt, black trousers, and a dark grey undershirt. There was no embroidery or decoration on the clothes that Margot could see, putting the woman squarely at odds with Osfordian fashion. A knife hung from her belt. “Just a moment.”

She hurried from her desk. Councilor King settled back to wait, and observed, “It seems classes have already started for the day. Usually you’ll see a student or two wandering about.”

“Are they all armed?” Margot asked.

The twinkle returned to the councilor’s eye. “More or less.”

A few moments later the secretary returned, trailed by two women, one ancient and one merely old. Both were dressed identically to the first, save for the gold medallions around their necks.

What was it Struttford said? Copper for journeymen, silver for those with their mastery, and gold…

“Grandmaster Weisman, what an unexpected honor,” Councilor King said. He bowed to the older of the two women. She was a tiny little thing who relied heavily on her cane to walk. Her paper-thin skin was a maze of wrinkles and liver spots, mapping a lifetime spent in the sun. But despite her age there was a liveliness to her expression and impish good humor in the grin she shared with the councilor.

“Now, now, Emil. None of that. I was just on my way.”

“It’s Councilor Emil, now,” he teased.

“One of the few privileges of living as long as I have is you get to call people whatever you want.” The woman turned to Margot and asked, “And who are _you_ called?”

“Margot. I'm a professor at the Kempeston Academy.” She took the offered hand.

She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “I wondered. It’s a shame what happened to Wu. Our Order owes him a great debt. Were I in your neck of the woods, I would have a thing or two to say to your school. As it is, I can only send sternly-worded letters expressing my disappointment.” 

“You know Master Wu?” Margot asked.

“You’ll find, my dear, that most of us old folks know each other. Who else are we going to complain to about changes we don’t like?” Master Weisman winked, surprising a laugh out of Margot, and a wide smile stretched across her face.

“Much better. I see so many serious faces these days. Life’s too short to spend looking like you’ve bitten a sour apple.”

She bid them goodbye and toddled out of sight. Still smiling, Margot turned her attention to the second woman.

The first thing Margot noticed was that it looked like she had bitten a few sour apples in her time. She had the strained appearance of someone under a great deal of stress with no apparent end in sight. Margot guessed her to be in her sixties, with almond shaped eyes shadowed with exhaustion and bronzed skin that had a waxy, almost unhealthy look to it.

“And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Councilor?” she asked.

Councilor King gave a sidelong look to the secretary, and said for Margot’s benefit. “Master Stilwell has recently been appointed Master of Masters for the Order, making her the overseer of the school.”

“And a very busy one at that,” Master Stilwell added. “Councilor Fairchild has already informed me of Miriam’s death. You have my full cooperation in your investigation, but I’m not sure if I’ll be of much help. She hasn’t stepped foot on this campus for years.”

“This isn’t about Master Caldwell,” Councilor King said softly. “Do you have a moment for me to speak with you privately?”

The line between her eyebrows deepened. “Of course. My office is this way.”

Councilor King turned to Margot. “This will just take a minute, I promise.”

Somewhat irritated at being left out of a conversation she was very much invested in, Margot settled to wait. The secretary stared at her, trying and failing to look like she wasn’t.

“It’s a lovely facility you have here,” Margot said.

It was something of a half-truth. The structure looked like it would have been fair in its day, but there were repairs that needed to be made. It was nothing terribly distracting—some chipped moldings here, a bit of scratched paint there—but it was noticeable, and that was never a good look for a school to have right when someone walked in its doors.

“Are you thinking of taking some classes?” the secretary asked.

It seemed like an odd question to as someone who had introduced herself as a professor of a well-known school, but Margot didn’t feel the need to remind this girl of that fact. “I’ve never considered learning blood magic, to be honest.”

The girl sighed and returned to her work. “Most don’t.”

Bemused, Margot waited the five minutes it took Councilor King to return. Any joviality Master Wiesman may have brought out in him was gone, and he looked even more concerned than he had in the carriage. He gestured Margot to follow him. He led Margot down a series of corridors that led to the back of the building, passing by small classrooms to the wing where instructors kept their offices. The farther they walked down the narrow hallways the stronger the sensation of magic grew. There was an unnatural stillness, their echoing footfalls providing the only sound as if the air itself was burdened with the weight of it, and lead windows perched high on the walls provided little in the way of natural light. 

It was old magic, too. Margot didn’t know if she could explain how she knew that, other than she just _did_. It was a similar sensation that she felt walking down the streets of Osford, but extended far deeper. The industries that filled the city with magic were only a few generations old, but the Order of the Red Dawn had existed for two centuries. There was history that bled into its very foundations, demanding respect and reverence. It was a grim, serious place that felt nothing like the wide, inviting spaces of Kempeston. It pressed down on Margot, and silly as it was compared to everything else that happened that morning, she had to fight against the urge to speak in a whisper. 

Councilor King ignored the offices and they continued until they reached a large door labeled Laboratory Two. A glowing rune at the top indicated it was in use, and a litany of protective spells made Margot’s eyes smart. Councilor King knocked anyway, before settling back in a relaxed stance. 

“So…” Margot began slowly, “who is it you’re taking me to see?”

Before he could answer the door opened a crack, revealing one hazel eye and part of a long elvish ear. Someone from inside the room called out, “Whoever it is, tell them to go away! I don’t care what Master Stilwell says. Rosetta had it coming, and I need to concentrate before I blow something up that I’m not supposed to.”

“Hello, Molly,” Councilor King said. “May we come in? I’m not here about any Rosetta.”

The elf’s eye widened. “Councilor! What an, er, unexpected pleasure. I’m sorry, but this isn’t a good time. She’s in the middle of an experiment.”

“I couldn’t tell,” the councilor said dryly. “And I’m sorry as well, but this can’t wait.”

With only a little prompting the elf stepped aside, allowing them to enter. At the sight of Margot her already enormous eyes widened further, her gaze lingering on her scars. Judging age on an elf was always tricky, but Margot guessed she was probably in her twenties, with a soft, baby face that made her look even younger. Her dress was humbly made, and she kept mousy brown hair swept under a starched white cap. When Margot smiled her whole body relaxed. 

“Hullo. Please make sure not to step over the ward lines.”

Margot’s gaze followed in the direction she indicated. In addition to the runes on the door, three circles of protection approximately fifteen feet in diameter were set at the center of the room, one salt, one silver, and one written with pure magic. 

In the middle of them was a mage wearing the strange uniform of the Order, and in her hand was a doll…also wearing the dour black and grey clothing of a blood mage. And that wasn’t the only similarity. The yarn that made the doll’s hair was the same shade of yellow as the mage’s, both cut just below the shoulder. Even their expressions were the same, with the cloth face painted in an identical scowl, which the woman used to glower in the direction of Councilor King. 

The mage was an inch or two shorter than Margot and stockily built. Even at a glance it was easy to tell that there was a fierceness in her, like a dog unafraid to bite. Combing strands of lank, unwashed hair out of her face, she glared at Councilor King and said, “Wandering around with another woman, Emil? I’d hate to think what your wife would think of that.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Eliza,” the councilor said coolly. “If you would be so kind as to give me a moment of your time—“

“I will not,” the mage, Eliza, snapped.  “As you can see I am very busy and don’t have time to suffer any of your nonsense. Go away and leave me alone.”

She set the doll on the ground sitting upright. It stared down at book with a faded, cracked cover, its pages yellow with age. Pausing only to take a deep breath, Eliza then reached into her pocket and found a packet of cigarettes. She set one in the crook of the doll’s arm and selected another for herself, putting it to her lips unlit. 

“It’s about the inspections. Something’s happened,” Councilor King said. 

The muscle in her jaw twitched in annoyance. “I have nothing to do with that.”

She reached into her pocket again, this time pulling out a flask and a shot glass. Eliza poured a healthy portion of amber liquid into the tumbler and set it in front of the doll, before taking a deep drink for herself. Beside the councilor, Molly began to shift nervously. 

“Eliza what in the nine hells are you doing?” Councilor King demanded. 

“I am…opening this book.” An animated light shone in her eyes that Margot recognized all-too-well, and despite the protections taken she found herself wishing she were on the other side of the door. “If I blow myself to pieces please tell Master Stilwell I’m sorry and she’s not to blame for any of this.” 

Without any further explanation Eliza recapped the flask and tucked it under her arm. Reaching for the sheath that hung from her belt, she drew a thin-bladed knife and used it to nick the base of her thumb. The councilor sprung forward with alarm as a bead of blood swelled from the cut and was smeared on the doll’s hand. 

“Eliza stop, you’re not qualified—“

With a snap of the fingers Eliza activated her wards. The councilor ran face-first into a barrier as solid as a brick wall, the circle of runes cackling with life. He was promptly knocked to the ground, where Eliza looked down at him, the picture of disdain.

“Your concern is both unwanted and unwarranted, and I’d be much obliged if you’d shut the &#*@ up. I’ve been working towards this for the last year and I’m not going to screw it up because of you.”

Margo rushed over to help the stunned councilor to his feet as Eliza started chanting a spell. More runes began to glow on her forehead and hands. 

“I think it’s time to go.”

“Too late,” Councilor King said, a dazed expression on his face. 

Eliza’s spell came to an end, and for a moment there was nothing but a terrible silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath in anticipation. Margot turned her head in time to see a pitch-black rune, previously invisible, etch itself on the cover of the ancient book. Even through the wards Margot could feel the foulness of it, and from inside the circle Eliza shuddered, still holding her knife with one hand and the flask with the other in a white-knuckled grip.

Still, there was nothing.

The elf, Molly, forced a smile even as she wrung her hands into knots. “Well that was anticlimact—“

Without warning, the doll burst into a pillar of flame. Councilor King threw himself backward to get away from it, nearly knocking Margot over, and Molly screeched with alarm. The fire burned so hot and so fast that the doll was instantly consumed, leaving nothing but a black scorch on the floor and the distinct smell of sulfur in the air. 

For a moment everyone was too stunned to move, but then, as if pushed by an invisible wind, the cover of the book fell open. Eliza approached it hesitantly and nudged it with her foot. There were no more theatrics, no more magic, and she began to laugh. 

“It worked. I can’t believe that it worked.” 

Still laughing, she sunk to the ground, flinging away her flask and knife so she could scrub her face with her hands. Giddy with relief, she turned to Councilor King. “I wish you could see the look on your face.”

The councilor got to his feet with all the dignity he could muster. Dusting non-existent dirt off of his pants, he asked, “What is the matter with you?”

“That is an exceedingly stupid question, even for you,” Eliza said. “Now what do you want? As you can see I am very busy.”

Councilor King fixed her with a cold stare. “Miriam Caldwell is dead.”

In an instant the atmosphere of the room changed. A soft gasp escaped Molly, and look of horror passed over Eliza’s face. 

“What?”

“You heard me. Something’s happened with the group conducting the inspections. May I introduce Professor Margot of Kempeston Academy?”

Eliza turned to Margot, bewildered. “You’re from Kempeston?”

“I think she’s been Cursed.”

All the color left Eliza’s face. Her eyes flickered from Councilor King, to Margot, and back again, her expression settling into a deep scowl. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she said in an exasperated tone, “You have the _$ &*^@!#_ timing. Why didn’t you say something?” 

“I tried,” Councilor King said. “You’re the one who didn’t listen.”

“Well why did you come here? I don’t work with real people.”

“Since when?” the councilor demanded. 

“Since always!” With sharp, precise motions Eliza lowered her wards and stomped to a work station at the back of the lab, scooping up her book, knife, and flask as she went. She dropped them at the desk and reached for a cigarette, purposefully keeping her back to the councilor. “It’s Jones you want. He deals with Curses all the time.”

“Um, you said he was on expedition. Isn’t expected back for a month or more,” Molly ventured tentatively. 

“Of course he is,” Eliza grumbled. “Nothing like a little grave robbing to bolster the reputation.”

“Professor Jones specializes in Cursed objects, not people,” Councilor King said. He took a step forward. “What’s gotten into you, Eliza? When was the last time you slept?”

This was the wrong question to ask. Molly winced as Eliza whirled, eyes narrowed into slits. Sensing another argument, Margot put herself between the councilor and the mage. 

“Look, this isn’t getting anywhere. I’m sure if I get back to Kempeston I can find someone—“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Councilor King said. “We don’t even know if you’ve been Cursed or not, or if you’re still in danger.” He craned his head and looked past Margot. “Please, Eliza. Just tell us that much.”

 “Fine. _Fine_. But I swear if there’s nothing wrong with her and you’ve been wasting my time…”

She left the threat unfinished and turned back to her desk, tearing through stacks of papers and throwing open drawers. “Where the hell’d it go…?”

“Hag stone is hanging from the back, miss,” Molly said helpfully. 

After some more grumbling, Eliza approached Margot with an amulet wrapped around her hand. Hanging from it was a smooth white stone with a hole in the center. Margot, used to seeing hag stones used for protection spells and not wanting to be the middle of her next ‘experiment’, regarded it doubtfully. 

“For true seeing,” Eliza explained. “Now hold still.”

Margot gaze went from her disheveled appearance, to the unlit cigarette still hanging from her mouth, to her bloodshot eyes. No one wanted to know more than she did whether Councilor King’s suspicions were correct, but not like this. 

“You’re in no state to be casting spells,” Margot said. 

“Good thing this isn’t a hard spell then, isn’t it.”

Eliza muttered an incantation under her breath, and the same protective runes from before sprang to life on her forehead and hands. The irritation and frustration melted away as she deepened the spell, intense focus taking its place. With one eye closed she brought the hag stone to her face. 

She looked through the stone for nearly a minute without speaking a word, enough time that Margot saw a line of confusion form between her eyebrows. The furrow only deepened when she lowered the stone, and she stared at Margot as if she’d grown a second head. 

“Who in the nine hells did you *#$$ off?”

“What? Nobody.” Margot looked at the councilor. “I’ve not done anything since I’ve got here.”

“So I was right?” Councilor King asked even as Margot’s stomach sank. “She’s Cursed?”

Eliza shrugged. “I dunno.”

“But you said—“

“There’s something there, yeah, but here’s the thing.” She put the hag stone into her pocket, before finally lighting her cigarette. She took a deep drag and stared at Margot with something akin to respect. “I’ve not seen anything like what you’ve got, ever, and I make my living studying Dark magic. This,” she gestured broadly to Margot’s entire person, “is completely new to me.”

“Fantastic,” Margot said sardonically. 

“That’s the spirit,” Eliza said. Flicking ash off the end of her cigarette, she took on a contemplative expression. “But assuming you are Cursed, I’d say so long as you don’t die you won’t have it too bad. You said you didn’t even know someone spelled you? Caster probably flubbed it.”

“Tell that to the others doing the inspections,” Margot said. 

“Hmn?”

“There were two others with the professor this morning,” Councilor King said. “They collapsed, maybe even died. I came straight here without hearing the outcome.”

The bravado left Eliza like air out of a balloon. “You’re kidding.”

“You know me better than that, Eliza.”

Eliza just stared at him. When it became evident that he was entirely serious she shook her head in disbelief. Anger quickly followed, tinged with the stubborn denial of someone who didn’t want to accept something they knew to be true. Eliza took a step back, then another, still shaking her head. 

“No. This isn’t happening. Not now, after all this time.” 

Raking her hands through her hair, Eliza spun around, turning her back to Margot and Councilor King. She paced in a tight circle before throwing an accusatory finger at Councilor King. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. 

“ _You…_ I can’t believe you. Why did you come here? What do you want from me?”

Councilor King sighed, and then said simply, “I trust you.” 

“Well $*#@ you. I didn’t ask for this.”

Margot’s incredulity matched Eliza’s, and the councilor explained, “Eliza’s father was the journalist murdered twenty years ago. Her mother also died in the attack, and she’s spent the past two decades trying to better understand Curses and other Dark magic so they can be better protected against.”

“For all the good it’s done me,” Eliza muttered. She smoked the last of her cigarette and threw the butt into the soot pile that had formally been a toy doll. Indecision warred on her face, and finally her shoulders drooped. With a resigned sigh, she beckoned Margot forward. “Well come on then. I’m going to need your participation if I’m going to have any chance of figuring out what’s wrong with you.”


	7. Dashiell Cain Takes A Case

Dash felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he stepped off of the ferry to Osford. It was the kind of feeling he got when someone was watching him, but that seemed unlikely possibility at the moment when hardly anyone even knew he was here. Still, he glanced around the bustling streets, and seeing nothing amiss strode confidently in the direction he hoped led to City Hall.

Every once in a while Dash had a beat that would take him out of Kempeston’s city limits, but none had ever been so far away as Osford. Growing up there had never been any extra money to travel, and Dash didn’t like the idea of working someplace new. Half the job of being a detective was knowing where to go for information. That was hard to do in an unfamiliar environment.

Dash was used to being the odd man out. He'd never been the sort who fit in wherever they went; rather he had to take the effort to carve out a place for himself, whether anyone else wanted him there or not. It’d been that way his whole life, and he’d gotten pretty good at following the time-old strategy of ‘fake it till you make it’. Results were…mixed at times…but he never would have gotten this far otherwise.

Some of that he owed to Margot. Actually, Dash wasn’t afraid to admit that _a lot_ of that was because of Margot. Dash wasn’t sure if she’d appreciate him butting his head into her business once again, but it didn’t feel right to leave her hanging. At worst she’d tell him nothing was the matter and he’d get in some sight-seeing and a day off work.

But all that hinged on Dash _finding_ her. Margot had given no indication of where in the city her fancy-pants inspections were taking place, and he didn’t have anything he could use to track her magically. His best bet was getting some official or other to spill the beans on her location. Maybe he’d dig up something useful on the way.

Osford was a big place, older and more densely populated than Kempeston. Dash wanted to get away from the waterfront before asking for directions, and he was too savvy to pick up one of the overpriced magic maps being peddled by the urchins near the docks. The worst thing to do when you didn’t know where you were going was look like a tourist.

He _did_ exchange his coin for the local currency. He’d made that mistake once before, back when he was brand new to the business and gotten a tongue-lashing he’d never forget for his efforts. Dash chatted up the lady working the counter and was given the directions he needed, as well as the names of a few popular hot spots in the area. He tipped a penny for her trouble, and left with a wink and a smile. The last Dash saw of her was the blush creeping up her neck and the shy invitation to come back another day.

From there Dash started walking, keeping his ears open for any scraps of gossip that might be of interest. If there was any big news it hadn’t broke yet, and all the conversation he heard were mundane in nature.  To save time, he cut through an open air market specializing in the buying and selling magical gizmos and doodads.

This was a mistake. The tables were crowded together with hardly enough space for a human to walk through, let alone a full-grown orc. To Dash’s dismay, there wasn’t a direct path to anywhere. Instead he had to navigate a circuitous route that seemed to take him in the opposite direction he wanted to go while merchants and salesmen of all stripes shouted over one another trying to promote their goods.

The market felt like it went on forever, and before long Dash was hopelessly lost, wondering if somehow the people of Osford managed to develop a spell that crammed an entire city’s worth of shops into an area the size of three square blocks.

It didn’t help that he was starting to get a little queasy. He’d handled the boat ride just fine, but there was something in the air – all the smoke, maybe? – that made him feel sick.

“Looking for something, friend?”

Dash turned to the gentleman manning a table of silver and brass thingamabobs that appeared to be made out of clockwork pieces, much like the bulky monocle he wore over his left eye. He had no idea what they did, and ordinarily he would have been curious enough to ask. “Only the exit.”

“Leaving so soon?” the salesman said. “Come, let me show you the finest pieces the School of Aethereal Technol--oh. Oh my.”

“What is it?” Dash asked.

The salesman adjusted his monocle, spinning the outer rim and causing a series of acid-green runes to glow around the edges. Dash took a step back as he came out from behind his table staring intently at his chest.

Add that to the list of things he wasn’t expecting when he woke up today.

“Your _coat_ ,” he cooed softly. “I’ve never seen such exquisite work. My dear lad, you absolutely _must_ give me the name of the artificer who designed it. Surely it wasn’t you?” The salesman brought his gaze up to Dash’s face and chuckled. “No, I can see now it wasn’t.”

Dash felt like he ought to be insulted, but all he wanted was to get away. “Sorry, sir. Out of towner, you wouldn’t know him.”

By now they were attracting the attention of other people, and that was the last thing Dash wanted. He managed to wiggle his way past the leering grin of the salesman only to run face first into his competitor from across the tiny path.

“You stay out of this, Fredrick,” Monocle Man said. “I saw him first.”

“Looks like he don’t want anything to do with you, mate. Not that I blame him.” Fredrick – who was either wearing some of the finest gauntlets known to man or had two metal hands – clapped Dash across the back. “Come over my way, friend. We can talk over drinks.”

“Sorry, there’s some place I gotta be,” Dash said. “Another time, when I’ve got more time and money to shop.”

Fredrick gave a deep, booming laugh. “I’ll hold you to that, friend. Here, take my card.”

Before Dash knew what was going on he’d been given half a dozen business cards and twice as many offers for his coat. None came close to what he’d paid for it in the first place, and there was no way he was going to part with his second-most prized possession so easily.

He kept the cards, though. Never knew when having a mage or ten in your pocket might come in handy.

It took a good fifteen minutes before he managed to stumble out the way he came, his hat tilted askew. Dash dusted himself up and took a moment to regain his wits. Then, shaking his head, he reached for a stick of jerky and continued on his way. __

* * *

City Hall wasn’t the tallest building in Osford, but it was one of the fanciest. It had a green lawn with lots of hedges and carefully maintained flowerbeds, and a fountain with a statue that changed poses on the hour. The façade of the building had a dozen pillars in the classical style, and the place was topped with a big old dome that looked to be painted with real gold.

As Dash stood finishing the last of his jerky, he could almost hear Margot tell him that he was underdressed.

Nearer to the entrance was a group of protesters handing out fliers to anyone who would take them. This sparked Dash’s interest even more than the strange inventions of the marketplace. It was a small group, maybe ten in all, presuming they were all banded together in one place. Their leader stood at the top of the stairway leading into the building giving an impassioned speech while he lackeys – none who appeared over the age of fifteen – handled the fliers to disinterested passersby.

“The time to act is _now!_ ” he bellowed. Dash noted with some interest that he used a simple cone to amplify his words, rather than any spell. “For too long we’ve been forced down a path not of our own choosing. The Council listens only to those who put money in their pockets, not the will of the people. It’s time to act, time to show them the old way of doing things has no place in today’s Osford. Let your voice be heard at the ballot box! Corruption cannot be reasoned with, only excised. A vote for Briggs is a vote for equality and representation!”

Ah, election season. He’d hoped for something a little more interesting than that. Dash took a flier regardless, if only because the kid handing them out looked tired and miserable, like he’d gotten his toes stepped on one too many times and then shouted at for his trouble. Tipping his hat in thanks, he finally made his way through the front doors of City Hall.

Immediately an alarm went off, and Dash could only groan. Today was not his day.

“You there! Orc! Hands out of your pockets and in the air!”

With a longsuffering sign, Dash did as he was told, turning to face a portly woman wearing the uniform of a security officer walking briskly in his direction. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Do you have any schedule three magical items on your person?” she asked curtly.

“Ma’am, I don’t even know what a schedule three magical item _is_ ,”

She scowled. “I don’t care for your tone, boy. Off to the side now, with your arms apart.”

With brisk efficiency, the woman pulled a thick wooden wand out of her belt. A muttered incantation caused the tip to glow bright red, and Dash held up his arms defensively. “Hey now, I’ll admit my coat is spelled. I didn’t know that would be a problem. I mean, I just got here an hour ago. It’s not like you’ve got a sign posted saying magic items aren’t allowed.”

The woman stared at him, then pointed a thick finger to the far wall opposite of where Dash had entered. A poster was hung listing the rules and regulations for all visitors. Sure enough, in bold print between the lines that required shoes and forbade Drath familiars was listed NO MAGICAL ITEMS SCHEDULE THREE AND ABOVE.

Dash blinked, managed to crack a rueful smile. “Well I still don’t know what a schedule three item is. Sorry.”

“They’re any number of spells, magical items, enchantments, etcetera, etcetera considered powerful enough to pose a significant security risk to this building or the persons within it, of which your coat somehow qualifies,” the woman intoned, sounding bored now that it was clear that Dash was merely stupid, and not any sort of threat. “You may leave it at the desk or return later without it. Your choice.”

“I, well, neither of those is a good option,” Dash said. He was stunned that his coat had set off their alarms at all. He’d paid extra to make sure it had a nearly invisible magical signature, and the spellwork that created his magical pocket was so new it didn’t even show up on the traditional protective spells that guarded places like this. It was a coat designed with snooping in mind, and it couldn’t fulfill that purpose if people knew just how powerful it was.

Besides, he kept his jerky sticks in that pocket. That alone made it worth the price he’d paid.

“Desk, or leave,” the security woman said. “I don’t care what you chose, so long as you quit wasting my time.”

“Hey now, let’s not be unduly restrictive,” Dash said soothingly. “I’m not hurting anything standing right here, and to be honest I’m not sure where I’m even supposed to go. I’m looking for one of the mages that’s come around doing your water inspections. Don’t know if you even know about those, but her name is Margot, and she’s one of the professors at the Kempeston Academy for the Magical Arts.”

The woman startled. “What did you say your name was?”

“I don’t think I ever did. Dashiell Cain, at your service.”

She let out an annoyed huff. “Why in the nine hells didn’t you say so? Gods, it took you long enough to get here. Now hurry along, Councilor Fairchild is waiting for you." She frowned, beady eyes squinting as she went deep in thought. "I suppose you can keep your coat, so long as you take it off and don’t activate any of its spells.”

Dash stood dumbfounded as she toddled off down one of the hallways. He had no idea what was going on or why this woman suddenly knew who he was. She stopped before turning the corner and gestured for him to hurry up. Hungry for answers and not wanting to irritate her more than he already had, Dash shrugged the long trench coat off of his shoulders, feeling strangely naked without its weight, and hurried after her.

* * *

Lucinda Fairchild’s office was bigger than Dash’s living room and held a stuffy air of self-importance. The dame herself reeked of old money, and while there was nothing particularly ostentatious about her appearance, Dash’s critical eye could see that her dress was made of the finest materials and expertly tailored. A few threads of silver in her auburn hair, a wrinkle or two around the eyes and mouth, and she was the picture of a wise old bird without any of the perceived imperfections of age. Either she spent an hour in the morning putting on her face or she was glamoured, and it spoke to the quality of her makeup and her magic that Dash wasn’t sure which.

But for all that, Dash could see a hint of ruthlessness in her eyes, a velvet glove hiding a steel fist. Councilor Fairchild was accustomed to power, and he got the impression that she wasn’t afraid to use it to get what she wanted.

So what did she want with him?

“Detective Cain,” she began once they were both situated. She smiled flawlessly and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, even under these auspicious circumstances. I thank you for coming so quickly.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to see me,” Dash admitted. He shook her hand and sat heavily in his chair, which was so plush and cushy that his butt almost sank down to his knees. “I’m sure you heard, but I’m looking for the professor.”

“Yes, and I’m afraid she’s currently…indisposed.” For the first time something close to displeasure flashed across her features. “And regardless of the circumstances that brought you to this office, I’m glad you’re here. I wish to speak with you about Miriam Caldwell.”

“The dead blood mage?” Dash asked. “And what do you mean _indisposed?_ ”

The councilor sighed and rose slowly to her feet. Dash had to crane his neck to see as she went to her door and traced a complex series of sigils that flashed a brilliant yellow across his vision.

“Privacy is a commodity I value more highly than gold,” she said, her tone almost wistful. “Do not worry overmuch for Professor Margot. I’ll tell you where she is after we’re finished here. To be frank, Mr. Cain, I would like to hire you.”

Dash went very still, except for his itching fingers that very much wanted to reach into his pocket for a piece of jerky. Not for the first time he wondered if he ought to invest in chewing gum. It was so much easier to keep his mouth shut when it was occupied with something else. “I’m listening.”

“Miriam is dead. I believe with all my heart that she has been murdered, and that her murderer is somehow connected with the incident that occurred this morning.”

Briefly she explained the story of the two collapsed mages and Margot’s escape with Councilor King. She told how she herself had spent the morning in a safe house, unable to send or receive any information with the outside until the threat was deemed to be past. She expressed her disappointment that Councilor King had not done the same to protect Margot from any harm, but supposed “what’s done is done”, and that she was in no acute danger.

“Are the other mages okay?” Dash asked.

“They’re currently at our city’s best hospital. The last I heard they are both alive but not yet conscious.” A grim expression passed over the councilor’s face. “The healer that treated them on scene, however, was not so lucky. Minutes after stabilizing Master Struttford and Magus Ó Canain she collapsed in the same manner they had. She was dead within minutes.”

“Good gods,” Dash breathed. He ran a hand through his stock of unruly hair, trying to think. It was harder than usual, the councilor’s story sounding too crazy to believe even in a city chalk-full of mages. He had half a mind to find the professor and drag her back to Kempeston, kicking and screaming if he had to. Never mind that she’d never let him. Sometimes he thought she was too stubborn for her own good.

“I’m sorry, Councilor, but this seems a little above my paygrade,” Dash said. “I don’t know magic like you guys do. I’m not going to be able to figure out what’s making people drop dead in the streets.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Councilor Fairchild said. Her expression softened, even if her eyes did not. “Miriam was a friend to me, one of my closest supporters and confidants. I’m afraid that her death will be lost in all this. That justice won’t be done. I want you to find out who killed her, and I want you to find out why. And you…you’re an outsider. I’ve read about your recent success in the paper, and think your unbiased lens is just the thing this case needs.”

Her cadence fell into the practiced pattern of a preplanned speech. Councilor Fairchild was talking like a politician trying to win over a group of bothersome constituents, not a woman who had just lost a close friend.

Dash drummed his fingers against his leg. There was too much of a coincidence for Caldwell’s death _not_ to be related to the attacks on the inspection team. He got the feeling that Councilor Fairchild was right, that the official investigation would focus on the immediate threat first and foremost. Not that he blamed them.

“How’d the healer die?” Dash asked. “Was it consumption coagulopathy?” He was amazed he didn’t stumble over the unfamiliar term.

“No,” the councilor said, surprised. “As far as we know, she dropped dead of a heart attack.”

So not even a cause of death linking the supposed murders together. He felt his mind begin to spin as he tried to figure it out, but it was like putting a puzzle together with three-quarters of the pieces missing. “Lemme talk with your investigators, maybe I can—“

“No, absolutely not,” Councilor Fairchild said sharply. She leaned forward, her hands laced together on top of her desk. There was a _look_ in her eye that told Dash that the velvet glove had just come off, and he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say.

“Mr. Cain, I am hiring you personally, as a private citizen and not a member of this Council. You will not be working with Osford’s police force in any official capacity, and you are to report your findings to me and me alone. Do you understand?”

“I think you’re getting your horse in front of your handcart, Councilor,” Dash said. “So far you haven’t hired me at all.”

“You must understand, my involvement would be seen as a conflict of interest. I won’t abide any sort of scandal, whether real or perceived.”

“Especially not in an election year,” Dash said lazily. “I get it. She was your aide, after all. Wouldn’t want the people to know if she got into something messy.”

The councilor smiled that perfect, practiced smile, and pulled out a coin purse that was full to bursting. “We understand one another then.”

Dash let out a soft whistle and weighed the purse in his hands. Though he was tempted, it seemed rude to open it in front of her. Not even his work on the Arthur Wright case had paid this much. He wondered if it would cover the cost to update the spellwork on his coat.

“A retainer,” the councilor said. “Do well and I’ll see that you’re properly compensated.”

For a moment, Dash wondered what would happen if he said no. No doubt they’d part with a warm handshake and the promise to meet up sometime for drinks and reminisce over their simple misunderstanding.

 _Ha_. Sometimes he made himself laugh.

Dash made the awkward attempt to tuck the money into his coat pocket while it was still hanging across his lap. One day he’d manage to look cool doing this detective business, but today was not that day. That suited him alright. It was easier if the councilor thought him a fool.

“You worry about your mage-killer. I’ll find out what happened to Miriam Caldwell,” Dash said. He extended his hand, wondering just how mad the professor would be to find out he’d taken a bribe from one of Osford’s leading politicians.

Sometimes he wondered how he got himself into these kinds of messes.

Councilor Fairchild clasped his hand in her own, lips curled demurely even as a victorious flash danced in her eyes. Dash had to force himself from shuddering in disgust.

“Mr. Cain, you have yourself a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to keep you guys waiting on this chapter. I have no good excuse other than I've been working a ridiculous number of hours and have been working on a project for a fan zine...but I still feel awful because I wanted this to be done weeks ago.
> 
> Written and edited in one sitting because of course I did. Let me know of any typos and I'll get them corrected later.


	8. High Risk, High Reward

Before leaving City Hall, Dash learned the following facts from Councilor Fairchild:

Miriam Caldwell was indeed a blood mage, powerful enough to have achieved her mastery and ambitious enough to be appointed Academic Dean at the tender age of thirty-five. There’d been talk of her stepping into the chancellor position, but she’d been overlooked in favor of another some years previous. Apparently Caldwell took the rejection personally, because when that fell apart she distanced herself from academia in favor of the murky world of politics, having crossed paths with Fairchild while performing her duties to the school.

For as close as the councilor claimed they were, it seemed like Caldwell was intensely private. A real recluse outside the workplace, good at keeping her nose to the grindstone and her mouth shut. That, along with her competence, made her a valuable commodity. In the five years they worked together Fairchild entrusted Caldwell with all sorts of important projects, most recently overseeing the inspections on Osford’s waterways.

To Fairchild’s knowledge, Caldwell had no enemies or debts. She had some family, but none that lived close by. No kids, and she never remarried after the passing of her husband a few years after the big plague. Pneumonia, she’d said. Apparently he never really recovered from his brush with the Red Death, a weak chest finishing off what the pox started.

It wasn’t much to go on, but even if it wasn’t the greatest lead in the world Margot was hanging out with Caldwell’s former colleagues, and Dash was anxious to see her. Besides, Caldwell's split from the school interested him. There was more to that story that Fairchild either didn’t know, or wasn’t willing to tell him.

Instead of trying his hand at navigating the city he paid the coin for a cabby. He spent the ride studying an old, grainy photograph he’d been so kindly supplied by Councilor Fairchild. It seemed like Caldwell had always had a thing for trousers, though she’d brightened up her wardrobe a bit since the picture was taken. In the picture she stood tall and proud, with her hands clasped behind her back and wearing an outfit that had more in common with a religious order than the uniform of a school.

But Fairchild made it sound like the blood mage’s school – called the Enclave – was strange, even by Osfordian standards. Very private, very selective, very _secretive._ Not unlike Miriam Caldwell, now that he thought about it. With a small sigh, Dash tucked the photograph back in his pocket, wondering if the knife hanging from her belt back then was the same one Morty had found hidden in her boot.

It was just past three by the time Dash arrived at the Enclave. He made it past the gate without any trouble; either their security wasn’t as tight as City Hall, or they didn’t care about his coat. There weren’t that many people wandering about the small campus, and of those that were, only a handful wore the long black tunic and pants of Caldwell’s past, the rest donning the bright colors that seemed more typical of Osford fashion.

They was, however, not a man in sight. Not among the students, and not among the black and grey-clad women Dash presumed to be instructors. Heck, even the cleaning lady was a lady.

Was that what Councilor Fairchild meant when she said the Enclave was selective with the students they accepted to their school? No men allowed?

Selecting a jerky stick and ignoring the odd looks he garnered from passersby, Dash sauntered into the building labeled Domokos Hall, where Fairchild said the chancellor of the school would be found. Only the blood mages didn’t call the head of their school a chancellor. They called it something ridiculous and pretentious – Master of Masters, maybe? Dash never had a head for academics and couldn’t remember. All he knew was that the lady’s name was Stilwell, and that she would be expecting him.

* * *

The first thing Dash noticed about Master Stilwell was that she was completely overwhelmed.

She tried not to show it, but the state of her office meant she didn’t have to. There were records and paper  _everywhere_. In stacks, in boxes, in folders, out of folders, leaning against the windowsill, strewn about her desk, and smattered along her floor as a final _pièce de résistance._ Dash mourned for the small forest that must have been sacrificed in order to create the disaster zone that lay before him. He was shocked he was even allowed to see, but it looked like Master Stilwell had other things in mind than figuring out where else she could talk with him in private.

With the resigned look of someone who knew they were fighting a losing battle, she swept clean a chair for Dash to sit on. “I apologize for the mess, Mr. Cain. I wasn’t expecting to host so many visitors today.”

“Hey, we all gotta do a little spring cleaning,” Dash said. His hands itched for a chance to snoop for Caldwell’s name among the mess.

“My predecessor passed away rather suddenly, and I’m still getting a handle on her…organizational system,” Master Stilwell said. “I’m sure there’s a method to this madness, but whatever it is, it’s beyond my ken.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Dash said. “It’s hard to step into someone’s shoes unexpectedly like that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cain, and yes. It’s been a month, and I’m still trying to get my feet under me.” Master Stilwell brushed a strand of hair from her forehead that seemed determined to lay on the wrong side of her part before forcing a smile so strained it nearly creaked. “I understand you’re a friend of Professor Margot?”

“Sure,” Dash said, not willing to press the subject she so clearly wanted to avoid. “I’ve worked with her a bit in a professional capacity. Detective,” he added, answering the question before she had a chance to ask. “I assume you heard of the Arthur Wright case?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” Master Stilwell said bluntly.

“Er, well, she helped me with it, and when I heard there was a connection between Master Caldwell and Osford I figured it wouldn’t hurt to pay a visit. That was before I heard about all the hocus-pocus with the water inspections.”

“You knew Master Caldwell?” Master Stilwell asked, tired brown eyes perking with interest. There was something in her tone, too. Something sad.

“Not really. I just happened to be there when she died,” Dash said. “I’m real sorry. I…I wish I could have done more to help.”

There were sometimes Dash was forced to lie to grease the wheels of conversation. Now wasn’t one of them.

“You were there when Miriam passed?”

“Yeah. Me and the prof.”

Master Stilwell blinked, and a little line formed between her eyebrows. “I didn’t realize Professor Margot had been present.” She hesitated, finger tracing a pattern on the front of a manila folder. “I apologize if this seems insensitive, but can you tell me what happened? No one else will. We studied together when we were younger, and there was a time I would have called her one of my dearest friends.”

Dash didn’t think it was a good idea to spill the beans on the autopsy report. Not when there was a chance she might have done it, or known who did. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? She looked pretty sick when it happened. Talk at the scene was tuberculosis.”

The line between her eyebrows got deeper. “Was she coughing up blood?”

“To be honest, I didn’t get a good look at her,” Dash said. “I was crowd control.”

“Of course.” Master Stilwell tried to hide her disappointment as she straightened a stack of paperwork. She looked about thirty seconds away from dismissing him from her office, and Dash couldn’t have that. Not yet.

“Is it bad when blood mages cough up blood?” he asked.

“It can be. It would be helpful to know if there were any other symptoms.”

“Like what?”

Master Stilwell paused her work. She stared at him for a shade longer than necessary, eyes narrow with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Sorry,” Dash said, scratching the back of his head. “It’s a detective thing. I don’t know when to stop asking questions, and I don’t like not knowing stuff. Everyone I’ve talked to makes blood magic sound evil, but that can’t be right. The city wouldn’t let you practice out in the open if that were true.”

She nodded. “Very astute, Mr. Cain. You’re right, of course, there’s no morality inherently tied to the practice. As with all magic, whether blood magic is used for good or evil or something in between depends on the actions and intent of the individual mage.” She sighed quietly and combed a hand through her short, greying hair. “Although I admit that it makes good fodder for dime-store novels and operas. Human and animal sacrifice, spilling blood to fuel spells…It’s all very dramatic.”

“You practice human sacrifice?” Dash asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Cain. But,” she allowed, with no small amount of self-deprecation, “there have been those who’ve conducted all manner of barbaric practices in the past. We carry the weight of our history, even now.”

She looked out her office window. “Miriam was an elemental mage with a specialty in air. I was a healer before retiring to academic life. Grand Master Weisman, my predecessor’s predecessor and perhaps the strongest blood mage living, is a master potion maker who designed the greenhouses you can see from here. None of us would have gotten as far as we did, or done the good we did, without blood magic.”

“How does that even work?” Dash asked. 

Master Stilwell smiled faintly, still looking out the window. “Are you a mage, Mr. Cain?”

“Kinda.”

His answer startled a bark of a laugh, and finally she turned to look at him properly. “It’s easier to show than to explain.”

She poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher half-hidden behind a precarious stack of scrolls and set the glass at the center of her desk. Before Dash could ask what she was doing, she drew a knife from her belt. Its blade was the same narrow shape as the one found in Caldwell’s boot, and with a practiced motion she nicked the base of her thumb. A single drop of blood welled up at the wound, and Dash leaned forward as Master Stilwell smeared it away with her forefinger. 

The glass of water froze solid, and she pushed it toward him. “Thaw that, please. And please don’t shatter the glass if you can help it. It was a gift, and one I’m quite attached to.”

Dash gave her a curious look. He was bad, but he wasn’t _that_ bad. One of the first exercises Margot set him to help with his control was melting chunks of ice at a steady rate. He called on a spark of his magic, causing his finger to glow a bright orange, and touched the rim of the glass. 

Nothing happened.

Curiosity gave way to confusion. He upped the power flowing into his finger, careful not to overload the spell. He could feel the ice actively fight against turning back to liquid water, which made absolutely no sense whatsoever. As warm as it was outside it took _more_ energy to stay solid than to melt. 

He added more magic to his spell, feeding it with a steady stream of power rather than the drip that he’d been expecting. Finally beads of condensation formed on the outside of the glass, and he could feel Master Stilwell’s spell shatter under the force of his. He couldn't hide his amazement; it took three times the power to break Master Stilwell's spell than it had when Margot did the same.

“You underestimate yourself, Mr. Cain,” Master Stilwell said approvingly. “That was very neatly done.”

“Yeah, well, I have a good teacher,” Dash said, embarrassed. 

“Whoever they are, you do them credit.” She had put her knife away and healed the cut on her thumb as easily as she’d caused it.

“Do you understand now, Mr. Cain?”

“It’s a power booster,” he said. 

“ _The life of the creature is in its blood_ ,” Master Stilwell said, as if quoting. “That is the basis for all blood magic, whether used for good or ill. There is an inherent magic to life, separate the energy most mages tap into to cast their spells. A blood mage draws from that magic.”

“Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, that’s your life,” Dash said. 

“It can be, but let me ask you this: If you have two candles, one lit and one not, and use the first to light the second, have you shortened the life of the first candle?”

That sounded like one of the riddles Mr. Westmacott was so fond of spouting whenever he was trying to make a point. “…No?” Dash said, suddenly unsure of himself. 

“Exactly,” Master Stilwell said. “If all blood magic shortened the lifespan I would be dead ten times over, to say nothing of Master Weisman.” She tucked the stray hair behind her ear, and Dash got the impression it was one of her personal ticks, like how the professor’s left eye twitched whenever she was irritated. 

“The theory’s so simple a child could manage it, but in practice it becomes so complex one could dedicate a lifetime of study to it and still not understand. You can ask any of the mages here, and they’ll agree.”

“No offense, but I think that’s just magic in general,” Dash said.

She managed a ghost of a smile. “Perhaps. But it is especially true for blood magic.”

“That makes sense, I guess. High risk, high reward,” Dash said.

“That’s certainly one way of putting it.”

There was a heartbeat of silence as Dash reached for a stick of jerky. “I take it that you don’t think Miriam Caldwell died of tuberculosis.”

“With her status and position, I find it very unlikely,” Master Stilwell said, all traces of good-humor vanishing as quickly as they’d appeared. “Although she did take an interest in how diseases traveled in the air after her husband died, so I suppose it’s not impossible. As I said, it would be easier to guess if I knew if she experienced any other symptoms of overexertion.”

“Like what?” Dash asked. 

She shrugged. “Epitaxis, hemotympanium, subconjunctival hemorrhage, tarry black stool or coffee brown emesis. I suppose bright red stool or emesis, too. Really, anything that indicates bleeding. It's the most obvious sign when a spell goes wrong.”

Dash had no idea what most of those words meant, but he recognized one from his time at the coroner’s office. Subconjunctival hemorrhage. A burst blood vessel in the eye. 

Not to mention all the blood Morty had found hanging out where it shouldn’t have been. It seemed like Caldwell had been casting some heavy duty spells before she died. 

Dash remembered the scars on her palm, and how they’d been cut so much to be resistant to magical healing. If Master Stilwell was able to juice her spell with a single drop of blood, what in the world was Caldwell casting that required repeated self-mutilation? Was Master Stilwell just that much better at blood magic?

No, that wasn’t it. Caldwell was a master herself, and had been considered for the head honcho position at the Enclave before turning to politics. They wouldn’t do that if she were a hack.  

“Anyway, I’m taking from your time,” Master Stilwell said after the silence stretched a few seconds too long to be considered comfortable. It was a rookie mistake, and one Dash cursed himself for letting happen. “I’m sure you’re eager to see the professor.”

“Don’t be sorry. I enjoyed the demonstration, and honestly it looks really handy. I wouldn’t mind learning more,” Dash said, hoping vainly to butter her up so he could ask her opinion on Miriam Caldwell.

Master Stilwell didn’t bite. “If you have a serious interest in blood magic, I would refer you to our sister school across the river where our male students go to study. Otherwise, I must get on with my work.”

“So you really don’t have any men here,” Dash said, surprised.

“No,” Master Stilwell said firmly. “I’m sorry, I cannot say any more to an outsider. The Enclave has for centuries condemned the foulest branches of our art, but that does not stop people from seeking them regardless. We are by necessity more cloistered than many of our peers. I only demonstrated for you now to correct the most common misconceptions that exist about our magic.”

“I understand, and thank you for giving me that much,” Dash said as he rose smoothly to his feet. He hadn’t got what he came for, but it’d been an enlightening visit nonetheless. He’d have to try talking with her again when she was off the clock.

“Now what direction did you say the professor was again?”

* * *

Margot spent her day being poked and prodded by an irascible Eliza Nightingale. She refused to work with Councilor King in the same room, and so he left like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Gods only knew where he’d wandered off to, but Margot found herself wishing he’d come back, if only to take the brunt of Eliza's moodiness. She worked mostly in silence, save for the occasional incoherent mumble as she thought to herself aloud. She moved from one task to another with brusque efficiency, hardly taking time to explain what each one was before she did it, leaving Margot confused and constantly on edge.

What seemed to bewilder her most was the Purifying spell Margot had been subjected to before leaving Kempeston. She insisted that sort of magic was antithetical to the stuff Curses were made of. It should have triggered as an anomaly, and Margot should never have been allowed on the ferry to Osford in the first place.

“So it’s not a true Curse,” Margot said.

“I don’t know,” Eliza growled. “Now quit squirming, this will only sting for a minute…”

It didn’t help that she was so obviously fatigued. She drank an entire pot of the strongest tea Molly could come up with and tucked between her gums and cheek a foul-smelling concoction made of half a dozen herbs emulsified in oil, which Margot recognized as an old student’s trick to quickly replenish dangerously depleted magical stores, apparently needed to renew the complex protections she had cast for her explosive experiment involving the ancient book and the strange doll that wore her likeness. She would occasionally repeat to herself the same thing again and again, as if she were trying to get it to stick in her head, or write an entire page worth of notes only to tear them apart as useless.

Margot didn't think she was drunk, but she was clearly impaired. Enough was enough. Crossing her arms across her chest, Margot said, “We don’t have to do this today. Everyone has limits, and it’s not safe for you to cast.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Really?” Margot said, “Because you look like a feather could knock you sideways.”

“Not about that,” Eliza said. She scribbled a few more notes onto a scrap of parchment and threw the quill away in disgust. “We’re running out of _time_.”

“I’m not going to drop dead, you know,” Margot said.

“No, I _don’t_ know,” Eliza snapped. “I don’t know why the others collapsed. I don’t know what spell the crazy who started all this put on you. I don’t even know _when_ you were spelled. Even if it’s a latent Curse with a trigger, for all I know you’ve passed your internment period, in which case all this work is useless and you’re screwed no matter what I do.”

“Internment period?” Margot said.

Eliza stared at her. When she wasn’t angry her affect was startlingly flat. It made it difficult to guess what, if anything, she was thinking. Margot looked away first, and Eliza paused to light another cigarette.

“Curses are…well, it’s hard to explain, because people never take the time to define what they mean by ‘curse’. They get them confused with Jinxes or Hexes or all manner of bad juju, whether magical or not. A True Curse is the worst kind of blood magic. They’re almost impossible to get right, and when it is, it kills the caster, one hundred percent of the time.”

“What.”

Eliza flicked a bit of ash into an overflowing tray. “To cast a Curse you have to hate someone so much that you’re willing to destroy yourself to destroy them. It's been that way for centuries, ever since to progenitor of the modern curse decided it was a good idea to sell his spells to two kings who were at war with one another. He waited for them to kill each other off before swooping in to conquer the smoldering mess that was left. His best student, who was also a nasty piece of work, wrote _that_ ,” she said, jerking her thumb over to the ancient book she’d worked so hard to open.

“Anyway, Curses are some of the most powerful blood magic there is, but it takes a while to stick. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? The knight in shining armor rides out to kiss the sleeping maiden before the sunrise of the third day, for only an act of True Love can break the evil Curse? That’s real. Or at least real enough, as far as garbage kid stories go.”

“So the time before it sticks, that’s called an internment period?” Margot asked. "So I have three days?"

“Yes for the first question, I don't know for the second. It depends.”

"On what?" Margot asked.

Eliza shrugged. "How well the Curse was made, usually, and the skill of the caster. But the nature of blood magic means that inexperience and incompetence can sometimes be overruled by feeling. Hate, pure hate, has a power of its own. Just like love, I suppose."

Margot allowed the information to mull in her head. She couldn't think of anyone who felt that way about her. Was that why she was safe when the others weren't? Whoever was doing this didn't _hate_ her enough?

That seemed ridiculous. Magic didn't work on  _feelings,_ at least not to that extent. Perhaps blood magic worked by a different set of rules than she was used to.

“This Curse, if I have one," Margot said slowly, "you're saying it needs to be broken before the internment period is finished, because then it will be unbreakable.”

The light in Eliza’s eyes dulled, and she doused her cigarette. “If you’re internment period’s past there’s nothing I or anyone else can do to help you. You'd have to be a Wizard to even try, but even then I doubt they'd be any good. A Curse...I don't know how to explain it well, but a Curse  _clings._ It infests you to the smallest part and doesn't let go. Hells, there are some Curses that have been passed from parent to child for generations, _that's_ how deep they go. Every attempt to separate the two after a Curse has sunk their teeth in has killed the host."

She turned away from Margot to stare vacantly at a portion of the wall. The muscle in her jaw twitched, and her fingers curled and uncurled at her side as if she were fighting some war with herself. Margot had another question at the tip of her tongue when Eliza shook her head sharply, her eyes suddenly focused after seeming very far away.

 "Roll up your sleeve. There’s one last thing I need, and then you can go do whatever it was you were doing before you got here.”

Margot did as she was told, and Eliza gathered up a small glass tube and a needle. “I need a sample.”

“Seems to me like handing out blood to a blood mage isn’t such a good idea,” Margot said.

Eliza snorted. “It’s a good thing I’m not a blood mage then. Now keep still, this will only sting for a little bit.”

Any more questions were ignored, and once the deed was done Margot was told to go away. Frustration bubbling just under the surface, Margot left, not even sure where it was she was supposed to be going. It was hard not to take an instinctive dislike to Eliza Nightingale, which was unfortunate considering that of the two of them she was the one who had any idea what she was doing.  

Margot closed the door of the lab quietly behind her and rubbed her temples. They had three days, less if they were unlucky and more if they were. 

Margot hadn't felt lucky for quite some time.

There was still hope that whatever caused all this wasn't a true Curse. There was plenty of Dark magic capable of striking people down in the street, which while not  _good_ was certainly better than a spell with some arbitrary time limit. Logically, Margot knew, there was no need to panic. Realistically, it was difficult not to when she'd been told there was a chance she could drop dead at any moment.

Outside the lab, Molly stood waiting with a cup of tea and an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I swear her bark is much worse than her bite."

"You've done nothing to apologize for," Margot said, accepting the cup gratefully. Her stomach rumbled in protest, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since early that morning. She wondered if the Order had a cafeteria.

As if reading her mind, Molly said, "I'll have one of the girls heat you a plate of food. It's bad enough business without worrying about an empty belly on top of everything else. This way, miss."

The elvish girl bustled down the hallway with the attitude of someone determined to be cheerful no matter the circumstances. Margot thought her enthusiasm did the dreary halls some good. A part of her felt sorry for having to keep after someone equally determined to be irritable and waspish. 

"Does Miss Nightingale use her in her experiments often?" Margot asked, trying to fill the silence with something other than the possibility her potential demise. 

"Never," Molly said firmly. "Never  _ever._ I'm no mage. I can't make head or tail of half of what she does, not that she'd even let me try." She stopped abruptly, creases of worry forming at the corners of her mouth. She had a startled, doe-eyed expression that was devastatingly effective, and Margot felt bad for even asking.

"Please don't think poorly of Miss Nightingale. She truly does care. She just doesn't always know how to show it." Molly's gaze drifted downward, hands bunching up at her sides. "She saved my life, you know."

"Where you Cursed?" Margot asked. 

"No. That's the incredible thing, she didn't use any magic at all; it was perfectly ordinary kindness. I don't know if that makes any sense at all, but it's the truth."

Molly swallowed hard and then looked back at Margot, as if daring for her to argue. A spark of fear remained in her eyes, perhaps waiting for chastisement for speaking out of turn. It took courage to speak up knowing she could be reprimanded for it, and Margot's opinion of the girl rose considerably. 

"It makes perfect sense," Margot said soothingly. "That doesn't mean she's not a grump."

A surprised laugh escaped Molly, quickly and not quite successfully stifled by biting down on a knuckle. A broad smile stretched across her face. "I'll not argue that, miss. I think it's her work that strains her. I don't know if _I_ could stand studying such terrible things as Miss Nightingale does, day after day after day."

Anything else she might of said was interrupted by a peal of laughter and the sound of little feet pitter-pattering down the hallway. Both Margot and Molly turned to see a young elvish boy tearing down the deserted corridor with wholehearted abandon. Farther back was Grand Master Weisman, following with her slow shuffling gait at a more reasonable pace. Beside her was Dash, bending down comically to offer his arm to support the tiny woman as she walked. 

As soon as he was close enough, the boy launched himself like an arrow into Molly's arms. He was quite young, likely no older than seven or eight, and small for his age. His hair was raven black to Molly's mousy brown and his eyes emerald green to her hazel. But they shared the same round, guileless face, their cheeks dimpling the same way when they smiled. 

"Charles! What have I told you about running about?" Molly scolded gently. 

"But Momma, look what I found! It's a giant!

He pointed to Dash, who indeed could pass as such in the predominately human city. Smiling sheepishly, Dash removed his hat and attempted to flatten his unruly hair, to no avail. "Good afternoon, miss. I've been looking for the prof, and ran into a couple helpful guides along the way. Name's Dashiell Cain."

Blushing furiously, Molly set down her son. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Cain. My name is Molly, and the little beast you've run into is my son, Charles." Turning to her boy, she said, "The nice gentleman is an  _orc,_ and it's rude to point."

"No harm, no foul," Dash said. He waved to Margot. "Hey, Prof. How've you been?"

"I've had better days," Margot said. "I was just off to a late lunch."

"I'll join you. Got lots of interesting things to catch up on," Dash said. He gave her a critical once-over, sharp eyes missing nothing. "I'm glad you're doing okay."  

"Master Weisman, were you going to join us?" Molly asked. 

"Another day, my dear. I must speak with Eliza," the Grand Master said, her voice a dusty croak. She turned her attention to Margot, pointing one knobby finger squarely at her chest. "It involves you too, I'm afraid. The Council of Mages has called an emergency meeting, and you have been summoned to attend."

"I really don't know anything," Margot said. 

"That does not matter. Another mage connected to the inspections has been found dead, and the Council would very much like to know why you haven't joined them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to have a medical glossary for this chapter. Epitaxis is a nosebleed, hemotympanium is blood around the ear drum, subconjunctival hemorrhage as mentioned is a burst blood vessel in the eye (which generally isn't harmful, but does makes you look like a Sith Lord), emesis is vomiting, and as a side note if your puke is ever bright red when you haven't been eating jello or something then you're probably bleeding somewhere, and if it's coffee brown in color then you have a bleed a little father down your GI tract (the brown is partially digested blood). Same with stools, except bleeds higher up cause them to turn a tarry black color (unless you're on iron, in which case that's a pretty normal side effect.)
> 
> Now with that out of the way, let's talk theology.
> 
> "For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it for you on the altar to make atonement for your souls, for it is the blood that makes atonement by the life." Leviticus 17:11
> 
> I have always liked the idea of a two-tiered magic system for my works, an inherent magic that that is part of the 'spark of life' so to speak, and the more conscious magic a mage draws from for their spells. One would be latent and under normal circumstances untouchable, while the other could be honed and grown through repeated use and study, like strengthening a muscle. 
> 
> Since Meg has been on record that DotL magic can be whatever the reader wants, this is the system I use with my DotL works. Some beings, like dragons, are more inherently magic than others. I head canon that part of the justification Elves used for their historic prejudice with the Orcs is a bunch of pseudoscience nonsense that argued that orcs were "less magical" the elves, and therefore less of a person. There's some real life parallelism with that, so I think it's something that's plausible in a fantasy setting. 
> 
> Where does the bible come into that? Well, for one I think it's a neat fit with the Christian themes already present in the comic. Even a cursory reading of the New Testament reveals how important the blood of Christ is within Christian theology (that phrase in particular is used waaay more than the similar in concept 'death of Christ', for example). Biblically speaking, there is a sacredness to blood. Commandments were given in the Old Testament forbidding Jews to eat the blood of animals (Gen 9, Lev 3, Lev 17, and Deut 12) because it *is* life. To quote the old hymn, there is power in the blood.
> 
> I designed blood magic with those ideas in mind. It's why my blood mages dress like monks and at times will act like a religious order. A blood mage literally puts their lifeblood into their spells. It lets them preform feats few others can, but puts them at enormous risk of injury, or even death. And if a less scrupulous mage was willing to throw their life into a spell designed to cause harm then, well, look at what happened to Eliza in the prologue.
> 
> For those who slog through my ridiculously long-winded notes, thanks for indulging me. Sometimes I feel like I write too much here, but at the same time I feel the almost pathological need to explain myself. Next time we'll dip back into politics and meet more suspects I mean characters. Until then, thanks for reading :)


	9. Interlude: The One They Couldn’t Save

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up rearranging my chapters a bit. This section was originally supposed to happen a little bit later, but I think it works better here. Unfortunately there was some establishing information I hadn’t got to yet, so I had to make a significant addition to the previous chapter. Go read that before continuing here. 
> 
> And as before, there is information here very much relevant to the main plot. This isn’t just me expanding on the backstory of my OC.
> 
> (Although it is a bit of that to. I’m sorry I can’t help myself)

Eliza woke up screaming. 

She jolted so sharply she nearly tumbled out of bed. Tears streaked down her face as she gasped for air, sweat-soaked hair sticking to the back of her neck. It took her panic-stricken mind precious seconds to regain its bearings. Heart pounding in her chest and stomach twisting into knots, Eliza tore the suddenly-oppressive sheets off of her legs and threw her feet over the edge of the bed, concentrating on the cold seeping through the soles of her feet instead of the fading terror. 

It took three tries before she could remember the word that would light the candles at her desk, and another two before she remembered to dismiss the silencing spell that kept her from making a sound. Then she sat with her head in her hands, trying to breathe through lungs that felt like they were full of broken glass.

It was just a dream. It was _always_ just a dream, though that didn’t mean it felt any less real. Through bleary eyes Eliza searched for the clock. Half-past three. She’d been asleep for two hours. 

Biting back a curse, Eliza scrubbed her face with her hands, grimacing at how clammy she felt. She rose unsteadily to her feet, drunk on sleep deprivation, and stumbled to her desk. She kept a basin for nights like this, making sure to keep the water barely the right side of freezing. The water woke whatever part of her the nightmare didn’t, and after a quick wash Eliza slid into her chair with a heavy thud. 

It had been quite some time since the dreams had been this bad, and Eliza knew that Master Stilwell would want her to chart the specifics for posterity’s sake. It had been helpful, once upon a time, to know what triggered the worst of the nightmares. Of course they would never go away entirely, but there was a difference between dreaming she’d overslept an exam and reliving the horrors of her childhood. 

But Eliza knew exactly what was causing this newest round of terrors, and there was nothing she could do to help it except endure and wait for them to go away on their own. There was no need to write anything down ( _can’t stand to think about it again)_ nor was there reason to bother anyone else with the same old complaints _(not a little girl anymore, can’t keep whining to Master Stilwell over a few bad dreams)._

This was her problem to deal with. Hers, and no one else.

A feeling that was suspiciously close to guilt was forced wrathfully away, and Eliza reached for one of the thick tomes that decorated her desk. She flipped to the chapter she’d bookmarked with half a dozen pages of notes and diagrams and began reading. The clock read three thirty-six. Rubbing her eyes, still feeling anxious and on-edge, Eliza sighed. Time passed so slowly at night. 

_BANG BANG BANG!_

Eliza jerked violently, spilling a full bottle of ink over her work. Swallowing an oath, she shouted, “What is it?!”

“Miss Nightingale, please come quickly! He’s here!”

For a moment she couldn’t move. The part of her that was able to think recognized Molly’s voice and understood what she was saying. The rest of her had stopped processing at the words _he’s here_. It was too early. She was in no way ready. Eliza looked down at her hands and saw that she was shaking. 

It felt like she was shaking inside, too. Eliza saw the ruined mess that were her notes and had to fight the panic rising within her. She wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she would ever be ready. 

The handle to her room turned, and Molly slid inside. “Miss Nightingale?” she asked hesitantly. 

“It’s too early. He wasn’t supposed to arrive until ten.”

“You told them to come as fast as they could.”

Eliza nodded faintly. Time was of the essence when it came to Curses. It might be too late already. 

“The masters are waiting,” Molly said. 

She nodded again, more firmly this time. Reaching into her pocket, she clenched the copper medallion that had once belonged to her mother until the edges cut into the palm of her hand. It was nearly identical to the one she wore around her neck, with one significant difference. Where Bryony Nightingale’s medallion was engraved with a caduceus signifying her profession as a healer, Eliza’s was marked with the Hand of Fantima, a five-fingered hand with an unblinking eye at the center of the palm. 

It was technically a misdesignation. While Eliza had spent a significant portion of her studies learning wards and other defensive magics, the Hand of Fantima was usually reserved for protection against the evil eye and other minor hexes. There was no symbol in Osford’s catalogue for atrue Curse-breaker.

Not that she’d broken any Curses. 

Yet.

Slowly Eliza’s resolve hardened, and she took a few deep breaths. Five seconds. That’s all she’d give to the overwhelming anxiety. Her heart rate lowered from a wild thunder to a more manageable gallop _(one)._ Still dressed in her pajamas she turned her attention to Molly _(two)._ Clamping down on the fear _(three)_ she remembering Master Weisman telling her that a certain amount of fear was a good thing, so long as it never took control ( _four_ ). When Eliza spoke, her voice was steadier than it had any right to be.

( _five_ )

“Tell them I’m coming.”

* * *

True Curses were rare. So rare to be considered obsolete, even within the realms of blood magic. Simply put, there were easier ways to cause harm that didn’t involve self-destruction. Eliza’s Curse was the first verified case in nearly thirty years, and there was no reason to suspect she would ever come across one again.

That didn’t stop her from wanting to study them.

When she was sixteen years old Eliza left the orphanage for the final time. It was the earliest she could apply for an apprenticeship without parental consent, for of course Eliza had no parents and the Matron had no intentions on handing her over to the Order of the Red Dawn, regardless of her feelings on the matter.

And Eliza made sure she knew. _Loudly and vehemently_. The conversation went so well Eliza doubted she’d be sent a card at Midwinter with the rest of the aged-out orphans, and she stepped out of those doors with a smile on her face, never to return.

She spent two years learning the basics of magic, another four studying wards and protective spells. It was difficult not to be impatient, for all she knew that she needed to be able to defend herself from Dark magic before she could begin dissecting it. She was so close to what she wanted she could taste it, and the wait was nearly killing her.

Eliza was by far the youngest student at the Enclave when she started, her education somewhat backward compared to what was normal. She learned piecemeal from masters and students alike, eavesdropping on conversations not meant for her ears and sparking discussions with anyone willing to talk with her. As was tradition, Eliza would not start her formal training as a blood mage until she passed her Gauntlet, and she needed to master the basics of her chosen craft before qualifying for the Order’s most stringent test.

The path seemed clear. Eliza had known what she wanted to do with her life since she was eleven years old and Master Stilwell gave her her mother’s medallion. Those at the Enclave who knew Byrony remembered her with a sort of fond exasperation. She’d been too stubborn for her own good, they said, able to accomplish whatever she set her mind to through an unholy combination of charisma, wit, and pure bull-headedness.

Eliza didn’t have a charismatic bone in her body, and attempts at wit and elocution left her tongue-tied. But she was her mother’s daughter, with plenty of stubbornness to spare. She received her copper medallion a year ahead of schedule and was set to take her Gauntlet before her twenty-third birthday. She would be the youngest blood mage in over a century, and after that she would find a way to do the impossible. 

And then word came from a village three day’s journey from Osford. A fifteen year old boy had been Cursed and was being rushed to the Enclave in hopes of reversing the process. The spell was progressive in nature, coming on with such insidiousness that no one was even sure when it was cast, thus making it impossible to know if there was anything to be done.

It would take a master blood mage to attempt the spell. Of the four masters who resided at the Enclave only Master Stilwell and her knowledge of the body was even within throwing distance of what the boy truly needed. There was little help to be had across the river; the only mage among the Order’s male counterpart who had even a theoretical understanding of Curses was conducting research in some remote wilderness, out of reach from even magical communication. 

The Order did what they could with the resources they had, but two things were absolutely certain: If left alone the boy would die, and there was no one at the Enclave qualified to help him.

* * *

By the time Eliza arrived the masters were already at work, aided by half a dozen journeyman mages and senior apprentices. For a moment she just stood, not sure where to go amongst the chaos. The grasp on the raging tide of emotion slipped, her breath catching in her throat until she found the familiar ( _safe_ ) face of Master Stilwell.

Eliza hurried to her mentor, who seemed to be mediating a heated argument between Masters Caldwell and Webb. Eliza never remembered the two of them getting along, but their working relationship had only deteriorated when Master Weisman had chosen Webb over Caldwell to succeed her as Master of Masters.

“What do you mean, the Council hasn’t been alerted?” Master Caldwell hissed, struggling to keep her voice under control. “We are dealing with a live Curse. The public has a right to know!”

“They were notified through the proper channels three days ago. How was I supposed to know the boy would arrive seven hours ahead of schedule?” Master Webb said. Her plump, round face was flushed bright red, wispy strands of auburn hair flying from a disheveled bun. Like Eliza, she appeared to have just fallen out of bed, and failed to cut a very imposing figure compared the tall, scarecrow of a woman that was Master Caldwell. 

“Besides,” Master Webb sniffed, “we take care of our own. An outsider has no business here.”

“This isn’t a squabble over curriculum or a matter of school discipline! A life hangs in the balance. Even if the final spell is ours to cast, the city has resources at their disposal, resources that we desperately need.”

A dangerous light flashed in Master Webb’s eyes, but Master Stilwell placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “There will be time to argue over what should or should not be done later. Even if we were to call now aid would not arrive in time. Has anyone seen Eliza?”

“I’m here.”

At once, the three of them turned to face her. Master Stilwell nodded once, sharply, and said, “The materials you requested are waiting in Laboratory Four. Lay your wards while we finish our preparations. We will do individual protections right before Master Weisman brings the boy. Once you’re finished, you’re to wait with the apprentices while we attempt to break this Curse.”

“I’m not leaving you in there alone,” Eliza said.

“You will do as you’re told,” Master Webb said. “The magic we are to attempt is not meant for the eyes and ears of the uninitiated, and you are not yet a blood mage. I’m sorry, but you cannot stay.”

Master Caldwell’s stony gaze slid from Master Webb, and she said, “It will be dangerous. Our focus cannot be divided.”

“That’s why I have to,” Eliza protested. “If the secondary wards trigger, no one is getting out of that circle for at least twenty-four hours. I worked in a back-door contingency, but it will only respond to my magic. I have to be in that room with you in case something goes wrong. Besides, what if you don’t have enough strength? I can’t actively cast, but you could draw from my bloo—”

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Master Webb said fiercely. “You know better to even suggest it.”

“But I’m willing. I’m _more_ than willing, and I trust you not to hurt me.”

Eliza held her breath while the weight of what she said sunk in. Master Stilwell seemed to understand first, her mouth twisting in a pained expression. Taking Eliza by the shoulder, she pulled her away from the other masters.

“Your heart is in the right place, but this isn’t about trust. If this is a problem that the four of us can’t handle then adding your life force will not change the outcome. There is a reason it’s forbidden to cast on blood other than your own.”

“But—“

“But nothing,” Master Stilwell said, her tone brooking no room for compromise. The authority she wielded was different than Master Webb’s, often hidden beneath a mild and passive persona, but was no less forceful because of it. Eliza’s mouth snapped closed, her arguments dying in her throat.

“There is a reason why we follow the principals we do. They’re not to be discarded when it becomes easy or convenient,” Master Stilwell said.

“Not even to save a life?” Eliza said angrily.

Her lips pursed into a thin, disapproving line, expression shutting faster than a slammed door. “We will talk about this later. If you want to help this boy, then I need you to listen and do as you’re told. Once our work starts you must not interfere. Miriam’s right about that much. This will be difficult enough without any distractions. Do I make myself clear?”

Eliza looked down at her bare feet, arms in rigid defiance at her sides. Master Stilwell took her roughly by the chin, forcing her to look into her eyes.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

Eliza spat the single word through clenched teeth, but it wasn’t any sort of conviction that made her agree. She knew perfectly well that if she toed the line any more they’d pull her for another, someone less qualified but more willing to follow the strict traditions and bylaws of the Order of the Red Dawn.

Master Stilwell released her to the other masters, her expression inscrutable. “This discussion isn’t over.”

Eliza ignored her in favor of listening to Masters Caldwell and Webb squabble.

“She knew. She knew, and took measures to force our hand. The girl isn’t ready for her Gauntlet, I’ve said that all along,” Master Webb said.

“And to think, we could have had a professional from the city draw up our wards and not dealt with this headache. Instead we’re stuck with a greenhorn who’s too clever for her own good,” Master Caldwell said. She raised an eyebrow in Eliza’s direction. “I like her initiative.”

“If it’s your secrets you’re worried about, don’t bother,” Eliza said, stinging at Master Webb’s accusation. “I’ve already seen what you’re about to do first hand.”

At that, even Master Caldwell’s mouth twisted into a grimace. While the masters found it difficult to look her in the eye, Eliza stood a little straighter. Blood mage or not, there was no way they were going to keep her from seeing this through.

“That’s what I’m worried about. You’re entirely too close to keep a clear head about any of this,” Master Webb said. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed. “Very well, Eliza. I will deal with your insubordination at a later time, but for now it will be as you say. You will be in the circle when the spell is cast. Now enough dawdling, go set your protections. Master Weisman will be in with the boy’s parents at any moment, and when she does we will have to move very quickly.”

Eliza bowed deeply at the waist, knowing it was what was expected of her. “Thank you, Master. I won’t let you down.”

* * *

If there was one misconception about magic that bothered Eliza more than any other, it was the belief that old spells held a innate and mystical power. There was no one in the world who would argue that a stone-tipped spear was superior than a steel sword, or that hand-writing books was more efficient than a modern printing press. Yet too many people thought that if a magic was _old_ that it was automatically _good_ when the opposite was often true. 

Eliza’s Curse was very old. It lacked the elegance of a more refined spell and was imprecise almost to the point of impracticality. It worked well enough, Eliza could attest to that much, but it was a sledgehammer compared to a more modern spell’s scalpel.

The boy’s Curse was somewhere inbetween. He was brought to the laboratory covered with a sheet, but even hidden beneath the thin material Eliza could see something was terribly wrong. His body was twisted into a shape scarcely recognizable as human, and if it weren’t for the shallow movement indicating his breathing she would have thought it was already too late.

The seconds before the masters began their spell were the most quiet of Eliza’s life. The boy was in too much pain to even scream.

The memory would haunt her for the rest of her life.

* * *

 

“Miss Nightingale?”

Eliza couldn’t bring herself to look up from where she was seated. She heard a rustle of cloth, the the soft clinking of a china cup being set on the flagstone floor. A shadow passed overhead, making her flinch.

“Miss Nightingale?” Molly repeated. “Is there...is there anything I can do to help?”

Somewhere very far away, Eliza could hear the boy’s mother wailing. She didn’t know if the woman was still there or if it was an echo in her own mind.

“What time is it?” Eliza croaked.

“Half-past five. The masters are still talking with the people from the city. Should I go inside, miss? I could help tidy up before they return.”

Molly nearly made it to the door of Laboratory Number Four before Eliza managed to grab the hem of her skirts. Molly stopped dead in her tracks, looking down worriedly where Eliza was sitting. No, not sitting. Standing guard. No one else should have to witness the horrors she’d experienced today.

“What happened?” Molly asked. “Please, I just want to help. I...I don’t know anything about magic, but I can still do something.”

Was this how she sounded to the masters? No wonder they didn’t think she was ready. Eliza struggled to sit up, bones creaking after sitting for hours crunched up trying to forget the images burned indelibly into her brain.

“Go to your boy,” Eliza said. “Tell him that you love him, because...because...”

Eliza’s voice cracked, and she couldn’t say any more as the tears streaked down her face. It was funny, she didn’t feel sad. Eliza couldn’t bring herself to feel anything at all, and yet she could not stop crying. 

She wondered if this was what sailors lost at sea felt like before they drowned. Her faith was shattered, and without it anchoring her Eliza was adrift. Adrift and empty.

Slowly, Molly pulled her skirts from Eliza’s grasp and settled down by her side, careful not to upset the cup of tea she’d left at her feet.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save him.”

“They didn’t even let me try.”

* * *

Eliza was able to evade Master Stilwell for only a day. On such a small campus it was nearly impossible to be alone without locking herself in her bedroom, and she knew that’s one of the places her mentor and first teacher in magic would try to find her. 

Instead Master Stilwell tracked her to the vestry. The small room was magically enclosed within the Enclave’s library, hidden from every official blueprint and floor plan and ordinarily inaccessible to students. But there were some perks to having known some of the school’s most prominent instructors from childhood, and there was very little about the Order of the Red Dawn that Eliza didn’t know.

Or so she thought.

The room was bare save for a single wooden bench and a statue of a hooded woman holding a knife against her upturned palm. The blade was as sharp as it was the day it was forged two centuries previous and was regarded with almost religious reverence to every blood mage who walked the halls of the Enclave.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Master Stilwell said softly.

“I’ve heard that a lot lately,” Eliza said. She didn’t take her eyes off the shadowed face of the woman, the forebearer who founded the Order all those years ago. She wondered if she’d be proud of what her school had become.

“Eliza, look at me.”

Reluctantly Eliza turned to face her. Master Stilwell looked neither angry nor upset, only disappointed. Somehow that hurt worse than if she’d started yelling.

“We must talk,” she said tiredly. “I’ve spoken with the other masters, and—“

“I want to remove my name for consideration,” Eliza said.

“What?”

“My Gauntlet. I don’t want to do it.” Eliza turned back to the statue, but found she couldn’t even look at the featureless face and lowered her head in shame. “I’m not ready.”

_(I’ll never be ready)_

A surprised puff of air escaped Master Stilwell’s lips. She’d steeled herself for a conversation she suddenly no longer needed to have, and was momentarily disarmed. Then a worried crease formed between her eyebrows.

“May I join you?”

Eliza nodded listlessly, and Master Stilwell settled beside her. They were silent for a moment, an awkwardness springing between them that always formed when Eliza knew she was thinking of her mother.

“I was going to say I agree with you, but I would like to know your reasoning first,” Master Stilwell said.

Eliza struggled to put her feelings into words. She clenched her hands against the rough wood of the bench. Her reasoning? What kind of question was that? Her reason was everything, and yet nothing. It just _was_. Eliza was certain of that, just as much as she had once been certain of the path that lay before her.

Doubt was an emotion that she wasn’t used to feeling in herself. Eliza feared failure like she feared little else, but wasn’t introspective enough to realize it. Instead she was driven to succeed, like her mother had been driven to succeed, and in her twenty-two years had with dogged determination strove toward a singular goal.

But the Order had failed that boy. They’d failed without trying all the options available to them. Perhaps Eliza’s blood wouldn’t have made the difference, but they would never know. More likely, his internment period had passed and all the power in the world would not have saved him.

Eliza knew that intellectually. She _knew_. But she couldn’t get her heart to believe, and that uncertainty was enough to upend everything she once knew to be true.

“There was nothing anyone could have done to ensure a better outcome,” Master Stilwell said. “Your protections kept the harm from spreading, and for that you should be proud. Sometimes...sometimes you can do everything right and still fail. It’s impossible to save everyone.”

“My mother would have,” Eliza said. “She would have found a way.”

Eliza regretted the words as soon as she’d said them, and Master Stilwell stiffened as if she’d been slapped, all of the color draining from her face. Rolling her shoulders in on herself, Eliza muttered, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

It took Master Stilwell several moments to regather herself and wipe away the tears that gathered at the corner of her eyes. For the first time Eliza saw how tired she was. Tired and old, just like she felt.

“I never told you why I sent her away from the quarantine, did I?” Master Stilwell said, her voice thick.

“You didn’t have to, I remember. She was stretched too thin,” Eliza said. “That’s why she couldn’t...when I...that’s why her last spell failed.”

“She and I were on the same assignment, and I managed another two weeks before being dismissed,” Master Stilwell said.

Eliza frowned. She’d heard the stories of Master Stilwell’s heroic efforts during the plague, but never put two and two together. “What happened?”

And why was she telling her this now?

“You have to understand, there were so many sick,” Master Stilwell said. “Our purpose was to help the greatest number of people possible, and that meant pacing ourselves. We spared no more than two drops of blood for a single patient and treated only those who we thought had the potential to recover. It was difficult for us both to turn people away, but Bryony struggled most of all. Especially if they were children.”

Master Stilwell leaned back, a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember it like it was yesterday. We were doing rounds in crumbling tenement housing unfit for the rats that infested them. The people there still believed that the illness was brought on by a foul miasma and blocked all the ventilation. They hung the most ghastly assortment of herbs and flowers in an effort to ward off the evil spirits they believed caused the disease, and the stench mixed with the smell of death. It _clung_ , no matter how hard you washed...And the windows! The windows were boarded and the few candles the people could afforded created caused more smoke than light. There was no water, no sanitation. No hope. Bryony and I treated so many the faces blur together. Saw so many dying it was impossible to cry for them all.”

She shuddered slightly at the memory. “It was nearly dark and our group was eager to get back to camp. Bad things happened to those who wandered late at night, but Byrony insisted we check one last room. It belonged to a family of seven, and they were all dead save the youngest girl, and the she wasn’t long behind. By my estimations we were three days too late. The pox had reached her neck and was affecting her breathing. There was nothing we could do except make her comfortable, but Bryony wouldn’t accept that. She couldn’t. 

“I agreed to let her try, more for Bryony’s sanity than any hope that she could help. But Bryony didn’t stop at two drops of blood. Before I knew what she was doing she’d cut her palm so deep that I had to repair the muscles in her hand afterword. She threw everything she had left into that spell, all because she couldn’t stand to see another little girl die.”

“What happened?” Eliza breathed. “Did she save her?”

“No, and if I hadn’t stopped her Bryony would have killed herself trying.”

Eliza sat stunned as Master Stilwell buried her head in her hands. A part of her couldn’t believe it was true, that Master Stilwell made the whole story up as part of an elaborate lesson. But no. One look at her face, still stricken and worn years later told Eliza that was not the case. Her mother failed that girl, and she was dead because of it. She and all the others who died because her mother had wasted the last of her strength on a lost cause.

Fury quickly followed the disbelief. Why was Master Stilwell telling her this now? What good did it do to drag out old wounds and the horrors of the quarantine?

“The most important thing a blood mage can do is recognize their limits, both physical and ethical,” Master Stilwell said quietly. “There are things we cannot do and lines we should never cross. I know you’re angry that we wouldn’t draw from your magic, but there was nothing anyone could have done for that boy. As much as you trust us, it would be wrong to put your life pointlessly at risk when there was no chance at a positive outcome.”

“Did you know?” Eliza asked.

“Know what?”

“That there was no chance of helping that boy? Why make him suffer the journey if you didn’t think it was worth the effort?”

There was a heartbeat of hesitation, then, “I didn’t know, but I suspected. We all did.”

Each word hit like a physical blow. Eliza squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself not to cry. She’d spent entirely too much time crying, and hated it, hated the weakness it implied. She wiped her face angrily with the heel of her hand and said, “It’s not the same.”

“How so?” Master Stilwell asked.

“The Red Death was an accident. A stupid, preventable accident, but an accident all the same. Someone hurt this boy on purpose, and they used blood magic to do it. What could a fifteen year old kid do to make someone hate him that much?”

“They found the body of the one who cast it,” Master Stilwell said sadly. “He was nearly a child himself. He had been overlooked by the local shaman to study magic, and in a small village like that, that meant he likely never would get the chance. He took revenge on the new apprentice.”

Eliza shook her head. “That makes no sense. How does a kid find out about a spell like that? Who taught him how to properly cast a Curse?”

But Master Stilwell had no answer, and Eliza left the vestry more confused and angry than when she had entered.

* * *

Eliza woke up screaming. 

Gasping for air, she flailed against the suffocating constraints of her bedsheets and fell out of her narrow bed, smashing her elbow against the ground. Pain exploded up her arm, and Eliza spat a string of curses that would have made a sailor pause. When she exhausted her vocabulary, Eliza could only curl into a ball and sob.

The nightmares hadn’t gone away. If anything, they’d gotten worse in the days after the failed attempts at breaking the Curse. The memory of the boy’s twisted, broken body made excellent fodder for her imagination, and the echos of his mother’s mournful wailing still echoed in her mind.

The rules for limiting Eliza’s own Curse were simple: eat well, drink enough water, get plenty of rest, and try to keep stress to a minimum. She had broken every single one of them and probably a few she didn’t even know about, and was suffering dearly for it.

Her body was at war with her soul, and Eliza wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Using her bed for support, she managed to get to her feet. Still in a sleepless daze, she managed to find her slippers and a cloak to throw over her shoulders.

The air outside was cold and damp. A layer of dense fog rolled in from the river, made worse by the thick smoke of the factories. It was impossible to see the moon; Eliza was lucky to be able to see past the end of her nose.

She paused when she saw a flickering light near one of Master Weisman’s prized greenhouses. It was only when she got nearer that she recognized the lanky silhouette of Master Caldwell smoking a late night _(or was it early in the morning?)_ cigarette.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Master Caldwell asked, the ember at the end of her cigarette casting just enough light to frame her sharp, angular face in sinister shadows.

“I guess not,” Eliza said warily. She felt jumpy and anxious enough without Master Caldwell staring at her. There had always been something off about her, something that didn’t quite match up with the other masters of the Enclave. 

“Don’t blame you. Happened to all of us at one point or another.”

Eliza very much doubted that. “What do you mean?”

Master Caldwell flicked the ash off the end of her cigarette, a bitter smile on her face. “Lose confidence in the Order, of course. Yours was a little more dramatic than most, but we all experience it.”

“I’ve not lost anything,” Eliza growled.

“Oh? Then why did you pull your name for your Gauntlet?”

“Because I’m not ready. Masters Stilwell and Webb said so.”

Master Caldwell let out a sound that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. “Why? You did everything they asked of you, and you did it well. You were even willing to give yourself to help that boy. What more could they want?”

“Do you think it would have mattered?” Eliza asked.

“Probably not, but we’ll never know, will we?” Master Caldwell finished the last of her smoke and stomped it out with her foot. Reaching into the pocket of her robe, she pulled out a small amber flask.

“Do you want some? It looks like you could stand to drown in your sorrows for a bit.”

Eliza hesitated. It was frowned upon for any blood mage to imbibe, and apprentices were forbidden from drinking altogether. But Eliza wasn’t a blood mage, and she wanted so badly to forget everything she’d seen and heard over the last week, if even for a little bit.

She stumbled back to her bedroom half an hour later pleasantly intoxicated and collapsed into bed without even taking off her shoes. Her dreams that night were bizarre and unsettling, but she woke up the next morning with the worst headache of her life and a solid eight hours of sleep under her belt, a rare feat even on her good days.

As the memories of the previous night trickled in, Eliza’s belly curled up in shame. While she was accustomed to toeing boundaries, she respected the Order and all that it stood for too much to directly go against its teachings. A drunk mage was dangerous enough, a drunk blood mage could be deadly.

But then she remembered what Master Caldwell had told her, the very last thing she said before they parted ways.

_There’s more to the world than just this campus. There’s more to blood magic than what the Order teaches. It’s up to you to decide what you believe, before you subject yourself to their way of doing things. Gods only know I wish I had._

Eliza was not yet subject herself completely to the Order’s authority. That would change the moment she started studying blood magic in full.

Was that something she even wanted anymore? The Order couldn’t save the boy and her mother hadn’t been able to save that girl. And there was no one in the world who could save Eliza from herself. She had been blinded by blood magic’s allure without ever considering the limitations of an institution so devoted to the traditions of the past.

Blood magic was _old_ , but was what the Order of the Red Dawn taught _good_?

She didn’t know, and that frightened her more than any Curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than perhaps any other story I’ve written, Osford draws on my experiences as a nurse. One of the worst feelings you can have is when you do everything right and someone still dies. When you make a mistake, in my experience at least, it’s easier to beat up on yourself because it’s in some sense justified. But when you do the right thing only for it to still go wrong you have that added guilt of knowing you’re being irrational for feeling terrible, but without being able to shake that feeling that you should have done more. Fun fact: During my lamp lighting ceremony in nursing school the speaker felt the need to tell everyone in attendance that, statistically speaking, over a third of the class would no longer be nurses in ten years. There are a lot of factors that go into that attrition rate, but caregiver role strain is certainly a big part of it and something I myself struggle with periodically. 
> 
> I’m also going to be drawing a lot from personal experience for the subconflict of tradition vs modernism within the Order, specifically having grown up in a relatively strict household in a very small, conservative town and then spending a couple of years at a very conservative Christian college. I feel like there are often good reasons behind what seem like ridiculous traditions, but those reasons are poorly communicated across generations.
> 
> There develops a two-fold problem where younger people are told what to believe but not why they should believe it, often learning to walking away from said traditions as they grow older, and the older generations not having the self-reflection to see if their traditions are good and/or relevant to the modern age. This extends beyond religion and can be seen in just about every culture as we exist in a world that is constantly changing at a breakneck pace. At some point we all have to ask the question, What part does our past play in our future?
> 
> The answer isn’t always easy to figure out, and things can get messy, to say the least.
> 
> Lastly, more medical terms! The miasma theory of medicine is an obsolete idea that “bad air” is the root cause of disease and other health conditions (including, hilariously enough, obesity according to some theorists) rather than any specific organism. Part of the reason plague doctors kept smelly flowers and such in their masks were to protect themselves from such a miasma. So during large outbreaks of disease, such as the Spanish flu, families would pack themselves into tiny enclosed spaces, close all the windows, and hang a bunch of aromatic plants to protect themselves. This, and other cultural norms such as kissing the bodies of the diseased, actually encouraged the spread of disease in densely populated urban environments. 
> 
> At the same time, this theory sparked the big sanitation reforms popularized by figures such as Florence Nightingale, which saved an untold number of lives even if the reasoning behind the method was ultimately incorrect. 
> 
> Science is weird sometimes.


	10. The Council of Mages

Hungry as she was, Margot found it difficult to eat. She felt like she should be doing something, _anything¸_ about her current situation. Instead she was left picking the crust on her sandwich wondering what in the world Osford’s most important body of politicians could possibly want with her.

While they ate, Dash regaled his journey, though Margot got the impression he was leaving out several important details. Like why he had even come in the first place when until this morning there was no indication anything was wrong. She didn’t pry. Even with Molly excusing herself to her duties they were surrounded by too many curious ears.

“So yeah, that’s the jist of it,” Dash said once he finished. “What about you?”

With a small sign, Margot gave him a quick rundown of her time in Osford, from the disastrous dinner the night before to Ó Canain curious absence on the way to the inspection site. She told him of Struttford’s collapse and the mysterious threats received by Councilor King. Lastly she informed him of everything Eliza told her of Curses and the possible time limit they were under.

“And now someone’s dead,” Margot said, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. “I don’t understand how someone can do this without anyone knowing. I haven’t sensed any dark magic since I’ve gotten here.”

“Two people, actually,” Dash said. “I stumbled across Councilor Fairchild when I was looking for you. She said the healer who worked on your two buddies bit it. Dropped dead of a heart attack.”

“Overexertion, maybe? Reviving two people back to back would take a lot of stamina,” Margot guessed.

“That explains one but not the other. Was the guy Weisman was talking about there this morning?”

Margot shook her head. “I don’t know. There were so many people around; they all blend together.”

Dash hummed his acknowledgement, spinning a strip of jerky in his hands as he thought. After a moment he pointed it at Margot. “Your Curse breaker said you’ve got to really, honest-to-gods hate someone to Curse them. This obviously isn’t an attack on just one person, or if it is they’re not afraid of a little collateral damage. Is it possible for a Curse to target a group of people?”

“I don’t see why it couldn’t, but I imagine it would be a more difficult spell.”

“So the question is who’s got the juice to pull something like that off. How many dead blood mages have there been recently?”

Margot leaned in closer to him, trying to keep the shock from her face. “Caldwell was at Kempeston looking for help. She was asking for _Master Wu._ ”

Dash shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t like the price the spell required, or maybe she got cold feet. I mean, she was the one who organized this whole shindig. If there was anyone who was in a good spot to target the inspection, it was her.”

It made a certain amount of sense, and Margot hated that. She suppressed a shudder, the skin at the edges of her burn tingling at the sensation. Miriam Caldwell’s last words echoed in her mind.

_Don’t go. Don’t go. Please, don’t go._

An idea slapped Margot so hard she almost fell out of her chair. “Caldwell knew who I was.”

“Well, yeah. Like I said, she was the main organizer for the inspections,” Dash said.

“No, don’t you remember?” Margot said sharply. “When she was dying you told her my name. I thought she was begging me to stay with her, but…what if she was trying to tell me not to come to Osford?”

She and Dash stared at one another wearing twin looks of astonishment. Slowly Dash leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking against his weight. He put his jerky stick in his mouth and began to chew.

“That’s a theory, but we need proof. Do you have any idea where she lived?”

“Not a clue.”

Dash nodded to himself, expression vacant and his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. He had the beginnings of a scent, and for the first time since entering this godsforsaken school Margot felt a little more at ease.

* * *

 

Margot just finished her lunch when Councilor King made his reappearance. He was ashen beneath his dark complexion, his usual jovial demeanor understandably subdued. After a round of quick, rather strained pleasantries and an abbreviated introduction with Dash, he told Margot, “I’m sorry to keep jerking you around from one place to the next, but I’m to ensure you make it to the council meeting. Come this way, please. There’s a carriage waiting.”

Before the counselor could turn around, Dash raised a finger in silent question. “Hey, boss, is this a public meeting? I’d like to attend if I could.”

Councilor King’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s possible. I realize you’re a friend of the professor, but this is a matter of our city’s security.”

“I would be more comfortable with a familiar face in the crowd,” Margot said. Dash nodded in agreement.

“Be that as it may—“

“Let me put this another way,” Margot said, her voice honey-sweet. “Dash gets to listen, or I don’t go. I don’t care what your council says, I don’t live here and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m under no obligation to do as you say.”

“Please be reasonable,” Councilor King implored. “People have died. We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“You lost the right to tell me what is and isn’t reasonable the moment you decided not to tell me the city received letters threatening _my_ safety,” Margot said. “I trust Dash. That’s more than I can say about the rest of your council.”

There was frigid silence, Councilor King’s handsome features hardening as if they’d been carved from a block of marble. Margot lifted her chin a fraction of an inch, just enough for him to notice. She knew the counselor had little choice but to let her have her way, and wasn’t surprised when his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“I’ll speak to Counselor Fairchild once we arrive. I’m sorry, I can’t promise anything more than that.”

“Do you hear that, Dash?” Margot said, craning her head to look up at him properly. “Sounds like you’re coming along.”

Dash grinned one of his big, doofy grins. “Thanks. I ‘ppreciate the invite. I promise not to go stirring up too much trouble.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Councilor King grumbled. “This way, please. The blood mages have arranged their own transportation, and we’re to start after they arrive.”

“I figured Miss Nightingale would be coming, but who else is supposed to be there?” Dash asked.

“Masters Stilwell and Weisman, naturally. They’re the highest ranking members of the Order still in the city,” Councilor King said. “Other than that, all seven members of the Council of Mages will be convened, along with the mayor, and a representative of the small council—that’s the city’s body representing our nonmagical population. Then a few other experts, hopefully to bring some answers to light.”

As if they’d been summoned, no sooner had he finished did the three blood mages in question enter the room. Eliza looked to be in an especially foul mood, winged on either side by Masters Stilwell and Weisman like a prisoner being marched in for sentencing. Her blonde hair was damp from a recent wash and she’d changed into a fresh black scalpular, free from the stains and singe marks of what she’d been wearing previously.

At the sight of the councilor her expression darkened, a thunderstorm building behind her eyes. Margot wouldn’t be surprised if she _had_ tried to shoot a bolt of lightning in his general direction. As they passed Master Weisman spared him an apologetic smile and patted Councilor King on the shoulder.

“Best hurry along, Emil. It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting.”

* * *

 

Councilor King led Margot and Dash the meeting room. It was the size of the Academy’s largest lecture hall, able to comfortably fit about two hundred people. At the center of the room was a raised platform with a table in the shape of a half moon, seven chairs situated on its outer curve and a podium in the center. Six were occupied, but the only person Margot recognized was Councilor Fairchild. She alone seemed perfectly at ease chatting with the person to her right, a giant of a man whose expensive robes draped over an egg-shaped body and light shining off the top of his bald, egg-shaped head. 

The hall was largely empty. A cluster of twenty to thirty people gathered around the front of the room, including Eliza, Master Stilwell, and Master Weisman. The three women of the Order of the Red Dawn stuck out like sore thumbs. They huddled together away from the rest, silent and grim. 

“I must join the others at the table,” Councilor King said. “I expect you’ll be one of the first called to speak, so be ready.”

Without any further words of advice he hurried to the platform. Catching Councilor Fairchild’s attention, he nodded in Margot’s direction. At the sight of her the councilor smiled, an expression meant to be comforting made terrifying in these circumstances. But she made no move to have Dash removed, and so Margot made her way next to Eliza, preferring to be near a familiar face, no matter how temperamental.

“Keep an eye out for anything unusual, would you?” Margot murmured to Dash. 

“Of course, Prof. What do you think I’m here for?”

“To sit and look pretty?”

Dash grinned, but anything he might have said was cut off by a call to order. Hurriedly, the men and women in the audience found seats at the front of the foom. Margot found herself sitting between Dash and Eliza. She could feel the tension in both of them, expressed in different ways. Eliza could hardly keep still, constantly shifting in her seat, bouncing a knee, folding and unfolding her arms with restless energy. She looked as if she would bolt at the slightest provocation and made no effort to hide her disdain. 

Dash had gone still, as he always did when he was focused. He had a stick of jerky in his mouth, but was more content just to chew rather than actually eat it. Normally contentious about his size and the space he occupied, he was slouched low with his legs splayed out in a way that gave anyone else very little room to sit. Manspreading, Lyra called it. Dash simply said it was more comfortable. 

“I will hereby call this meeting to order,” Councilor Fairchild said. She used magic to subtly magnify her voice so that it carried to the farthest corners of the largely-empty hall. “Given the nature of the emergency that has brought us together this evening and in accordance with City Code 463-54D, we will forgo the usual formalities and cut straight to the heart of the matter. As many of you are well aware, an attack has been made on our annual water inspections, which are conducted in accordance to the agreement drafted by the great Wizard Wu twenty years ago in response to the unfortunate accident that resulted in the spread of the Red Death. As always, this council has endeavored to abide by this agreement both in letter and spirit and has gone above and beyond to improve city infrastructure so such a tragedy will never again befall our great city.”  

There were ripples of agreement from the gathered crowd. 

“At precisely eight thirty-three this morning, two of the three outside inspectors collapsed and would have died of a major cardiac event if not for the timely actions of a nearby healer. I myself was present and can attest that there was no warning before the attack, no obvious trigger or caster of this spell. The would-be assassin then targeted the healer, and soon after stabilizing her two patients she _also_ collapsed. Attempts at resuscitation were not successful, and at eight fifty-seven this morning she was pronounced dead at the scene of the inspections.”

Councilor Fairchild paused to gather herself. Every imaginable flavor of discomfort and fear were present on the faces of the seven members of the mage’s council, to say nothing of the people gathered below them. 

“Also this morning, a member of the sub-committee in charge of organizing the inspections was found dead in his bedroom after coworkers grew concerned that he had not arrived at the industrial sector as planned. He, like all the rest, died of a major cardiac event. He was twenty-seven years old.

“Investigators have found no signs of any spellwork at either scene. No trace magic nor any signs of suspicious activity leading to the event. The committee member had nothing in common with the inspectors, although he was noted to be friendly Master Struttford the night before--” beside Margot Eliza suddenly tensed, as if ready to jump out of her chair. “--and was scheduled to be in charge of communication between Osford and the outside mages in the continued absence of Master Stilwell.”

“Is it true that Miriam’s dead?” someone to Margot’s left called out. 

For the first time, Councilor Fairchild faltered. She searched for the voice who spoke but didn’t seem to be able to pull them out of the crowd. In a moment her mask was back in place, calm and in total control. 

“Master Stilwell passed away yesterday morning, yes. However she was found in the city of Kempston and details surrounding her death are still emerging. We’re not certain yet if there is any connection to the events here in Osford, but be assured every effort is being made to stay in constant communication with the authorities of Kempeston.”

“Why wasn’t the council notified of Master Stilwell’s death?” the man seated next to Councilor Fairchild demanded. “Even if there’s no confirmed connection, you have to admit it’s suspicious given the circumstances.”

“And what _are_ those circumstances?” a woman from the gathered crowd shouted. “What sort of threat are we dealing with here?”

Councilor Fairchild clapped her hands together, a spark of magic causing the sound to boom in the cavernous hallway. “There will be time for questions soon enough! And Councilor Erikson, it was not my intention to withhold any information. I was only made aware this morning of Master Stilwell’s passing and have been dealing with the more pressing concern of keeping our mages _safe._ The point of this meeting is an exchange of information so that we may all proceed on the same footing. So please, _let me speak_.”

“Are our mages in danger?” another councilmember asked. “Or is it simply a vendetta on the inspection? What kind of motive are we looking at here?”

“It’s impossible to say. We have received the usual empty threats and vitriol, but these last few months there has been something more. Councilor King, if you would.”

Councilor King whispered a few words into his hand. A snap of the finger and a flash of vibrant green light later, a large image was thrown in the space behind the councilor’s table. It was the projection of three notes, magnified large enough for everyone present to see. 

“Show off,” Eliza muttered, sinking deeper into her seat. 

Margot paid her little mind, gaping at the words spread out in front of her. They were written from news clippings like some cheap dimestore thriller, pasted on cheap parchment. Whoever the sender was, they undoubtedly had a flair for the dramatic. 

_CaLl OFf tHE InsPeCtioNS or I WILL ExpOSe You FOr whAT you REALLY ARE_

_TweNTY YearS TO LeARn a LESsoN and NOTHING CHANGES. HoW QUICKLY yOu FORgeT tHE LimITs of YoUr pOwER. I WILL MAKE yoU RemEMBeR_

**_DeATh tO_** **_aLl mAgES_**

The room went silent. Beside Margot, Eliza began to tremble, her face ghost-white as she stared at the words in front of her. Councilor Fairchild allowed the effect to sink in like a coffin being laid into the ground. Then she said quietly, politely, “That’s enough, Councilor. Take them down.”

Councilor King did as he was told. For a moment there was nothing but the perfect, terrible silence of a room of people not making a single sound. 

“As is protocol we handed the notes over to investigators, but our assassin is clever,” Councilor Fairchild said, her words breaking the brittle quiet as if it were made of glass. “There are letters here taken from every major newspaper in the city, and each threat was posted from different boroughs, making tracking the sender through the postage system impossible. There is nothing magical about these letters at all for our mages to trace, nor any physical evidence left behind.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about this killer at all? Or have you been sitting around twiddling your thumbs?!” someone snapped.

“Hear, hear!”

“Why wasn’t the small council notified of the threats?”

“Has the mayor taken action? What protections have you put into place?”

“ _Enough!”_  

Magic laced the command and gave it physical weight. Those who were speaking found their jaws suddenly locked, their faces going red with fury and embarrassment. Councilor Fairchild turned to the man next to her, the one who had spoken the spell, and tutted with disapproval. 

“Now, now, Councilor. There’s no need to go to such extremes.” With a flick of the wrist she broke the enchantment, before straightening her spine to express her disappointment on those gathered in front of her. 

“And there is no need to speak out of turn. The Council _hasn’t_ been idle to this threat, and with that in mind, on behalf of my colleagues I must call Magus Eliza Nightingale forward.”

Eliza looked as if she wished for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. But Councilor Fairchild wasn’t asking, and after a sharp elbow from Master Stilwell she pulled herself to her feet. “I’m going, jeez _._ ” 

Muttering a curse, Eliza walked to the podium with the stiffness of a wooden soldier being unwillingly marched into battle by an unseen, malevolent hand. Master Stilwell straightened her already-perfect posture, gripping the arms of her seat until her knuckles turned white. On her other side, Master Weisman patted her reassuringly and whispered quietly into her ear. With visible effort, Master Stilwell forced herself to relax.   

The way she was standing, it was impossible for Margot to see Eliza’s face, but her body language screamed defiance. Councilor King buried his head in his hands while the rest of the council, save Councilor Fairchild, met her distaste with suspicion of their own. 

 _This is starting well_ , Margot thought, and was cheered somewhat by the fact that when it was her turn to speak, she couldn’t possibly make a worse first impression. 

“Magus Nightingale, for the benefit of the council and those in attendance today, could you please state, clearly and concisely, your name, position, and school?”

“Eliza Nightingale, Curse-breaker. I was taught by the masters of the Order of the Red Dawn.”

“So you’re a blood mage?” Councilor Fairchild said. 

“No.”

Even Councilor Fairchild seemed surprised by this. Beside Margot, Dash leaned down and asked, “Did you know that?”

“No,” Margot said quietly, voice barely carrying over the murmur of the crowd. “No I didn’t.”

A voice behind them chuckled. Margot turned to see that a man had settled in the seat directly behind her (had he been there the entire time?). He was an unremarkable man in an unremarkable suit, who had one of those faces that made it impossible to tell if he was thirty or fifty years of age. Threads of silver wove through close-cropped blond hair at his temples and crow’s feet crinked at the corners of his eyes. The signs of age stopped there, leaving his forehead and the corners of his mouth smooth as the day he was born. 

“Oh, this ought to be good,” he said, whether to himself or to Margot she couldn’t tell. There was no time to question what he meant, because Councilor Fairchild had moved on to her next question. 

“Setting aside your credentials for a moment, is it true that you were sought out this morning by Councilor King?”

“Yes.”

There was a beat of silence while Councilor Fairchild waited for Eliza to elaborate. When she didn’t, she prompted, “Why was that?”

“He believed someone had been cursed and he wanted me to see what I thought of it.”

“Councilor King, have you anything to add?”

The counselor cleared his throat nervously. “I knew of the threats to the inspection team. The reference to the event twenty years ago reminded me of the string of murders that occurred during the last days of the Red Death. Mages were the target then, and curse-magic was involved.. It seemed like too much of a coincidence, so I took the one member of the team to not collapse in to be evaluated.”

“For those wondering, Professor Margot of Kempeston has graciously agreed to be in attendance,” Councilor Fairchild added. “In any case, Magus Nightingale, the professor was brought to you. During your time together, have you found any evidence of her being Cursed?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Councilor Fairchild repeated. She leaned forward on her elbows, looking down at Eliza as if she were a bit of foulness that needed scraped off of her immaculately polished boot. “How can you _not know_?”

“Maybe I would by now if you hadn’t dragged me here to be your whipping girl,” Eliza snapped. “Diagnostics take time. I can say for certain that the professor has been touched with some sort of dark magic, and that it must have been very recently since she was subject to a Purifying spell before leaving Kempeston. Other than that...I just don’t know.”

Master Stilwell rose to her feet. “Councilor, if I may interject, the Order has been scouring our libraries since hearing of the incident, and we have found nothing of a spell that fits this description.”

“Who all has evaluated the professor?” Councilor Erikson asked, slamming a meaty fist against the table. “The girl isn’t even a proper blood mage, how is she supposed to know a curse when she sees one?”

Even at a distance it was impossible to miss Eliza’s reaction, stiffening as if the words were a physical blow. Her hands balled into fists, elbows locked in at her side. Just as it seemed like she were gearing up to say something she would later regret, Master Stilwell interrupted once more. 

“Eliza is the only member of our Order qualified to make such an assessment, and she has my full confidence in her ability. In the meantime, all members of the school journeyman and above has been searching our writings for answers. We ask for time, Councilor.”

“Time is the very thing that we do not have,” Councilor Fairchild said. “Not with two dead and two who by all rights _should_ be dead. I move for the council to allocate researchers from the city library to the Enclave to assist in this matter while inquiries can be made on bringing in others specialized in Curse magic. I’m sorry, Master Stilwell, but one mage’s opinion is not enough, no matter your confidence in her.”

For the first time, it seemed like everyone was in agreement. Noises of assent trickled from both the council table and the minority gathering in the front of the room. It was a good, sensible plan that Margot wholeheartedly agreed with, not that she got any say in the matter as a complete outsider. 

“Wait for it,” the man behind them whispered. 

On cue, Eliza turned to Master Stilwell, her eyes wide with panic. Councilor Fairchild made a motion for a vote, which was immediately seconded by Councillor Erikson. Just as the matter seemed to be settled, Master Stilwell spoke, her voice loud and clear. 

“I’m sorry, Councilor. The Order of the Red Dawn cannot agree to such drastic measures.”

“Drastic?” the counselor to the left of King said disbelievingly. “Woman, we are in a crisis, and you have the _audacity_ —”

“Peace, Willard,” Councilor Fairchild said soothingly. “It is, after all, the function of this table to give the mages of our city a voice.”

There was a patronizing note in her voice, so slight that Margot wasn’t sure she didn’t imagine it. It seemed like she wasn’t the only one. The lines framing Master Stilwell’s mouth deepened as she inclined her head. “Thank you, Councilor.”

She paused once more, faltering under the eyes staring daggers into her. Her gaze flickered to the diminutive Master Weisman and seemed to gather strength from the old woman standing next to her. 

“I am new to my position of Master of Masters, but even with my inexperience I can tell you the Order of the Red Dawn has long had a policy of not allowing outsiders access to our literature. Blood magic carries a unique risk in that untaught or novice practitioners can cause disproportionate harm through their spells, whether accidental or intentional. We extensively vet any potential student, and even then anyone not fully qualified is only given limited access to our libraries. Our techniques are our own, I cannot allow just any outsider access to them.”

“But surely exceptions can be made? I seem to recall people outside your school being granted full privileges during the Red Death,” Councilor Fairchild said. “I spent hours pouring over esoteric texts written in language so archaic I could hardly make heads or tails of it. Twenty years later, and I still have managed to resist the urge to mutilate myself for a bit of extra power.”

She tittered at her own joke, and she wasn’t the only one. Save for Councilor King, every person sitting at the table seemed to find the councilor hilarious, and the crowd quickly followed suit. Master Stilwell let it wash over her with the impacivity of a stone, but Eliza was furious, splotches of red covering her face and neck. 

“Master Weisman, I implore you to talk sense into your successor,” Councilor Fairchild said. “It was during your tenure that the libraries were opened.”

Slowly, Master Weisman rose to her feet, leaning heavily on a cane made of rich, dark wood. Even standing, she barely came up to Master Stilwell’s shoulders. “I remember quite well, Lucinda. And may I remind _you_ that I no longer have any authority of Master of Masters. I stand by Clara’s decision.”

“It is because of the events surrounding the Red Death that I must refuse on behalf of my school,” Master Stilwell said calmly. “Because blood magic was so much more effective at treating the disease we opened our libraries to outsiders and allowed them to search for some way to translate blood magic’s greater power to more traditional healing techniques. Books _were_ stolen, among them containing the means of conducting a spell called Zephyr’s Curse. That was the spell that ended the first killing spree twenty years ago, resulting in the death of two people and the first confirmed Curse within Osford’s borders in decades.”

Without warning, the man sitting behind Margot and Dash sprung to his feet. “If I may interrupt, the effects of the theft don’t stop there.”

As one, the room turned to look at this new speaker, none more startled than Master Stilwell. Councilor Fairchild’s eyes narrowed. “And who are _you_?”

“Julian Briggs, at your service,” the man said, bowing slightly. “Former police inspector, and the man who was in charge of investigating the mage killings twenty years ago.”

Dash nudged Margot in the ribs. “He’s got the same surname as guy running for office.

“Same person?”

“Dunno, but I grabbed a flier.”

Councilor Fairchild regarded this new intruder suspiciously. “I didn’t realize you would be present here today,” 

“I let myself in,” Briggs said lightly. “I have information that might be of interest to the current goings-on. That is, if you’ll let me.”

There was subtle challenge in his voice, made less subtle by the imperious tilt of his chin. The members of the council looked at one another in confusion, save for Councilor Fairchild. Her flinty gaze never left his. 

“You may speak, Mr. Briggs.”

“Thank you.” He bowed again, and when he spoke his posture shifted slightly, standing at attention as if he were reading off a report.

“The original murders may have stopped with the casting of Zephyr’s Curse, but the stolen materials the master speaks of were never recovered. After resigning from my position I was set on tracking them down, as well as who stole them in the first place. The trail went cold, but eleven years after the Red Death I stumbled across a second Curse victim in a village north of Osford. I sent the family here to see if there was anything they could do, but it was too late. The lad died three days later.”

“I remember the incident well,” Councilor Fairchild said. “Go on.”

“What I’m trying to say is this: No one Curses anyone anymore. It’s bloody, it’s risky, and it rarely works. Everyone knows that the real mage killer used a patsy to finish the job once the investigation got too close. It’s believed that the second incident was the same: Someone sold the means of casting a real, honest-to-gods Curse for personal gain. One Curse is a curiosity, two is a coincidence, but three...three Curses in twenty years is a conspiracy.”

Briggs took a deep breath, but there was no anxiety in his voice, no worry or outrage. He was a policeman delivering a report, listing facts, offering testimony, and drawing conclusions based on the evidence at hand. 

“I’ve learned over the course of my investigation that true Curses are deadly to the caster as well as the victim. So my question is how many dead blood mages have there been recently, and why is no one looking into Miriam Caldwell as a potential suspect?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's in the nano spirit and currently in word count hell (me, the answer is me). So hopefully there will be lots of good Osford content for y'all in the coming days. 
> 
> And speaking of content, I'm sure most readers saw the link I posted in the DotL discord, but this summer I amused myself by drawing covers of my own fanfiction. I had meant to post it here too, but kind of forgot until now. So here it is if you want to give it a look https://creative-type.tumblr.com/post/186019660781/


	11. A Midnight Meeting

Whatever response Julian Briggs thought his dramatic pronouncement would lead too, Margot guessed that it wasn’t laughter. 

It came after a brief, stunned silence, a single snort piercing through the hall like a firecracker on a clear sky. It was joined by booming guffaws, wheezing chuckles, and everything in between, derision from a dozen directions targeting one man like a mage’s homing spell. 

The first and the loudest of these came from the egg-shaped man. Erikson, Councilor Fairchild had called him. The one who used the silencing spell on the audience. If Margot hadn’t already disliked him on principle, the display would have been enough for her to be turned off for good. 

Compared to him, Councilor Fairchild looked like a paragon of grace and civility. She did not do anything so undignified as _laugh_ , but her painted lips turned at the corners. There was a frigidness to her expression, blue eyes like shards of ice glaring daggers into the man that would dare enter her domain uninvited and unwanted.

The blood mages at least had the decency to be embarrassed, but of course Miriam Caldwell had been one of theirs. Even estranged, under Osford’s nonsensical rules they were still responsible for her actions as a mage. 

While Caldwell’s death _was_ suspicious, Margot was less sure about Brigg’s theory. There was nothing to connect her to the mage killings twenty years ago and no obvious motive. And why would she steal library materials when as a master blood mage she had full access to the Order of the Red Dawn’s writings? Perhaps Margot was misremembering, but she thought Caldwell only left the Order when Master Weisman chose another to take over her position, an event that took place well after the Red Death’s passing. 

Which brought up another interesting point no one seemed to have considered: There was another dead blood mage in all this mess, the Master of Masters who ruled over the Order of the Red Dawn between Weisman and Stilwell. The one who beat out Miriam Caldwell and caused her to leave the school in favor of working under Councilor Fairchild. 

Margot wondered how she died.

All her questions jumbled together, crashing against one another in wave after wave of confusion until Margot could hardly keep them all straight. She felt like she was studying a book with half the pages missing and the biggest exam of her life depending on knowing all the information. There was too much history here she didn’t understand, people and events so interconnected and twined together until it was impossible to take apart any single thread without unraveling the entire mess. 

And it seemed like Margot wasn’t the only one. Eliza Nightingale was still standing on the platform looking like she would rather be anywhere else, posture unsure and defensive. As the raucous laughter died down, she asked, “Can I leave now? I have work that needs done.”

“You may be seated,” Councilor Fairchild said magnanimously. The pronouncement signaled to all the rest that the joke was over, and once more order fell over the room.  Then, without even humoring Julian Briggs’s theory, she turned to address Master Stilwell. 

“Clara, my dear, are you sure I cannot persuade you to see sense? You were a healer, once upon a time. Have you forgotten your oath, _first do no harm?_ There is a dangerous mage utilizing spellwork unlike any we’ve seen before, and you’re little school may hold the answer.”

The appeal to her former profession was a slap in the face. Master Stilwell’s face went white with sudden, barely-suppressed anger. “With all due respect, Councilor, it may not,” she said, the courtesy vanishing from her voice as if it had never existed. 

She said nothing when Eliza forwent her seat in favor of escaping out of the back entrance. Her eyes never left the councilor’s. “I invoke the Order’s right to a full hearing before the schools.”

“On what grounds?” a councilor, the only woman beside Fairchild, demanded.

“The Council has set a dangerous precedent tonight that cannot go unchallenged,” Master Stilwell said. Each word was hard and cold, but in a different way than Fairchild’s patrician disdain, stony flint to her ice. “Exercising emergency powers to call a meeting without the minimum quorum? Then using the advantage of numbers to bully the Order of the Red Dawn into giving up it’s rights as a sanctioned school to act in accordance with our traditions and bylaws, bylaws that were witnessed, signed, and agreed upon by this very council? What is it that you hope to achieve tonight, Councilor? Because you seem very eager to get your foot in our door when there is still no proof that a Curse has even been cast.”

A hush fell over the room, the accusations ringing like a cry to war. 

And it _was_ war, Margot could feel it in the rising tensions, the unflinching and indomitable wills of the two women in question. Margot fought the urge to rub her aching temples. 

And to think, she had left Kempeston in hopes of _avoiding_ politics. 

When Councilor Fairchild spoke, her voice and smile were smooth as oil. “On behalf of the Council of Mages, I call Professor Margot of Kempeston to the podium.”

Margot felt like a bucket of cold water had been washed over her. She disliked being used, and as she got to her feet she felt more like a living, breathing chess piece than a person. She was forced to walk in front of Master Stilwell to reach the ten little stairs that took her up the raised platform. There was something close to regret in her dark eyes, and Margot managed a crooked smile. 

The light above the podium was too bright, making everything bleached and featureless. Margot blinked against it, sparing one last, fleeting glance to the audience behind her. Eliza never had returned to her seat, leaving the two remaining blood mages broken off from the rest like a leper colony. Briggs had disappeared as well. Laughed out of the room, Margot guessed. She didn’t really blame him. 

Margot searched for Dash’s familiar face, but the seat he should have been sitting in was likewise empty. She barely caught a glimpse of him hurrying out the same door Eliza used minutes earlier.

Dash was a dear friend, but there were days Margot wished she could throttle him. 

There was a soft _ahem_ from the council, drawing back Margot’s attention. Seven pairs of eyes stared at her hungrily, and she had a sudden, unbidden memory of defending her dissertation, except here she had nothing prepared and had no idea what they wanted of her. 

“For the benefit of the Council and those in attendance, could you please state your name, occupation, and school?”

“Margot, and as you’ve just said I’m a professor at the Academy in Kempeston,” Margot said. “I didn’t study in Osford, so I don’t think my school matters all that much. I was asked to come here to help with your water inspections”

“Forgive me, Professor, force of habit,” Councilor Fairchild simpered. “Now, would you agree with the testimony you have heard tonight?”

“If you mean the sequence of events laid out by Eliza Nightingale and yourself, then yes,” Margot said. “I was there this morning when my two colleagues collapsed. I don’t remember seeing the healer go down, but thanks to Councilor King’s quick thinking I was taken from the scene almost immediately. I was taken straight to the Order and spent the rest of my day there with Miss Nightingale.”

“Have you, in your experience, ever heard or seen a spell like the one allegedly used to attack Magus Ó Canain and Master Struttford?”

“No.”

“Do you, in your professional opinion, think that you have been Cursed or otherwise targeted by dark magic?”

Margot couldn’t help but laugh a little at the question. “It’s hardly my area of expertise, Councilor. Based on what’s happened and what I’ve been told I have to assume yes, but I never sensed it, or saw anyone cast a spell.”

“So you’re saying you are depending on the evaluation of Magus Nightingale to get to the bottom of this?” Councilor Fairchild said. There was a predatory gleam in her eyes that Margot didn’t like. 

“I guess I am.”

“And do you trust her ability to do so?”

The seemingly-innocent question was soft and laced with poison. Margot understood at once what the councilor was trying to do. If she could undermine Eliza’s reputation then it would be easier to force her agenda through. She already had the approval of the council itself; Margot guessed that with this move she would gain the support of the mages who voted them into power. 

Everything about the situation felt dirty and distasteful. Margot was cynical enough to have an instinctive distrust of politicians, but at the same time she felt Fairchild had a point: Others _should_ be brought in to reach the bottom of this mess. Eliza was volatile and did little to inspire Margot’s confidence. And it wasn’t even her magic Margot questioned. Every spell she saw Eliza cast was competently done, and her ward work during the experiment with the doll was truly impressive. 

Margot’s memory turned back to that experiment. She _saw_ Eliza prick her thumb and use her blood as a component in her spell. Suddenly she understood Councilor King’s panic: Eliza wasn’t a qualified blood mage, but that hadn’t stopped her from casting her spell. 

That blase disregard for the Order’s rules, touted so highly by Master Stilwell, was an enormous red flag that joined all the other red flags waving in Margot’s face. She knew little about blood magic, but her time in Osford was enough to tell her it was extremely dangerous in even the best of circumstances

Margot could feel Master Stilwell’s gaze boring into her back. She could imagine her expression, the mix of hope and fear as she awaited Margot’s answer. 

It was a shame. Based on how Dash described her, Master Stilwell seemed like a nice enough person, if overwhelmed by the sudden responsibility thrust on her shoulders. But she was wrong. And it was Margot’s responsibility to say so. 

“Councilor,” Margot said, her voice ringing loud and clear, “I admit that I would feel more comfortable with a second opinion.”

Victory flashed in Councilor Fairchild’s eyes, replaced almost immediately by a placid, demure expression. She smiled, perfect white teeth flashing in the light. 

“Thank you, Professor. You may be seated.”

* * *

 

The meeting ended very quickly after that. The council was obligated to respect Master Stilwell’s call for a vote, whatever that meant, but the damage had been done. Councilor Fairchild would eventually get in her way. 

In the meantime, protections for the inspection team doubled, with guards standing over the still-incapacitated Struttford and Ó Canain and Margot. She didn’t know what good they would do if another surprise attack occurred, but the sentiment was appreciated. 

It seemed wisest to return to her hotel. Margot still had no idea where Dash had run off to, and Masters Stilwell and Weisman had followed Eliza’s example and made a quick exit, making it impossible for Margot to explain her decision. She felt awful for them, understanding their worry from a certain point of view. 

Surrounded by people ostensibly meant to protect her, Margot felt completely isolated as she was accompanied back to the hotel. She thought about contacting Dash through a communication spell, but those were always tricky without knowing where he was, and he never would have left in the first place if it weren’t important. If he had a sensitive lead she couldn’t interrupt him, and Dash was smart enough to figure out a way to find her when he was good and ready. 

Instead Margot forced herself to eat, and then confined herself to her room to think. She would have liked the freedom to walk the streets, but tensions were too high and the danger too great. She paced circles, so many that she was surprised she didn’t wear a hole in the floor. Then she sat at the small desk provided in the corner and began to write. 

It took three drafts before Margot had anything resembling a coherent letter and another two before Margot found the words she wanted to say to Lyra. How did someone tell their significant other that there was a small chance that they might drop dead at any moment without sounding alarmist? How could she tell Lyra she’d gotten herself tangled in a serial killing twenty years in the making without distracting from her own dangerous work?

Sometimes, Margot mused herself while wading waist deep in a dark humor, she wished she were a poet, able to artfully describe the worst atrocities with a silver pen. She was much too forward with these things, and when stated bluntly her situation was almost comically terrible.

In any case, Margot couldn’t post the letter tonight. She let it sit out on the desk, setting it in her mind to make a final revision in the morning. Perhaps there would be more answers then, but a niggling feeling in the back of her mind thought that it probably wouldn’t. 

Maybe then Struttford and Ó Canain would be up for visitors. Margot would feel better after seeing them again. They hadn’t known each other long, but there was a certain amount of guilt, illogical as it was, that came with coming away unharmed from the event that had so nearly killed them both, and _had_ killed the one who selflessly saved their lives. 

Was it, perhaps, because she hadn’t been standing with them? Margot couldn’t think of any other reason why she had been spared. Did that mean the attacker had been at the scene and saw them together? The only people Margot could remember seeing were city officials. Was it, as Dash and Julian Brigg’s said, an inside job?

And why hadn’t Miriam Caldwell wanted Margot to go to Osford? What secrets did she take with her to her grave?

Margot flung herself into the bed and groaned into her pillow. Questions, questions, questions without nearly enough answers. 

She wrapped her arms around the uncomfortable hotel pillow, tiredness seeping into her joints and marrow. The events of the morning felt like they had transpired an eternity ago, everything blurring in her memory like a whirlwind. She was tired. She _knew_ she was tired, but sleep felt like it was very far away. 

Seconds ticked past, one after the other. The protective spells set up by her city guard deadened the sounds of the street and hallway, furthering her feeling of _aloneness_. Facts, theories, and questions were her only company, and they made for poor house guests. After awhile Margot convinced herself that she was overlooking something important, but couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it could possibly be. 

When Margot was younger, just starting her studies in elemental magic, she had a teacher who was exceptionally fond of practical demonstrations. At the start of the year he set up a contraption that spun common stones together with sand and water. It made ungodly amounts of noise at the back of the class, churning and tumbling rocks until they were polished and smooth as glass. 

The dread in Margot’s stomach felt like that rock tumbler. For periods of time she was able to distract herself enough not to notice it, but in the quiet moments it would not be ignored, unease churning in her gut until she felt like she might be sick.

And, of course, she would have no polished river stones to show for it. The only thing she succeeded in was giving herself a headache.

It was doing no good worrying. Worrying solved nothing and made it more difficult to keep a clear head. With a small sigh, Margot laid her head on her hands and forced herself to relax, first her neck, then her shoulders and arms, all the way down through her body using the guided meditation techniques she learned early in her post-graduate schooling, when she’d been up to her eyeballs in work with hardly any time to sleep and the stress threatened to eat her alive, just as it did now. 

It took longer than it ever had then, but through force of will Margot made herself drift off into an uneasy slumber. 

* * *

 

Margot was still in the same position when the sound of someone pounding on her door startled her awake. Jerked violently from a deep sleep, it took Margot precious seconds to remember where she was, or why she was there. She rolled to her feet in time for a second round of incessant knocking. 

“Lyra…?” Margot mumbled, brushing wild tangles of hair out of her face. 

“Gods&%$# it, Professor, open up!”

Not Lyra, then. Or Dash, for that matter. Eliza. What could she possibly want from her now?

There was more shouting from the other side of the doorway. People from the hotel, maybe, or guards sent by the city police force. Eliza didn’t have clearance to be here, they didn’t know who she was and were trying to force her away. 

Margot flung open the door. “People are trying to sleep, you know.”

“We’re sorry, Professor,” a man wearing the bright costume of a bellboy said. “She ran right past security, and-- _hey!_ ”

Eliza shoved past him. She had the appearance of a woman possessed, her face flushed red and sweaty, her chest heaving from having sprinted from gods-knew-where. Her hair was in no better condition than Margot’s without the excuse of having just woken up, and she wore an expression of pure panic. At the sight of Margot she lunged forward as if to grab her. Margot instinctively backed away, calling a whisper of magic into her hand, just in case. 

Eliza froze, her hands still half-raised in the air, grasping at nothing. The panic morphed into outright terror. It was an expression Margot had only seen once before, when she witnessed the people of Kempeston run for their lives during the Drath attack.

“Stop it! _Stop casting!_ ” Eliza screeched before doubling over to swallow great lungfuls of air. Between heaving gasps, she said, “It’s magic! Your Curse is triggered by your _magic!_ ”

The security officers finally caught up with them and slammed Eliza into the doorpost of Margot’s room. Somewhere in the back of her mind Margot was glad that Eliza wasn’t the killer, otherwise she would already be dead.

There was shouting and more confusion. A few brave guests poked their heads out to see what the commotion was about. For a moment Margot was numb, paralyzed. 

A bellowed explicative brought her crashing back to reality. Margot shoved off the nearest hotel employee. “Stop that, she’s not hurting anyone! I know who she is.”

It took a few minutes to get everything sorted and convince everyone that Eliza was who she said she was and wasn’t about ready to use her athame to slit Margot’s throat when no one was looking. Finally the biggest and burliest--and therefore the leader--of the guards muttered something about making a report to headquarters. 

“You do that,” Margot said. 

Then she grabbed Eliza by the front of her scapular and drug her into her room, slamming the door behind them. 

“ _Explain_ ,” Margot hissed. 

Eliza eyed her warily, rubbing the spot on her jaw that was darker red than the rest. Instinctively Margot went to make ice, but Eliza’s hand shot out before she could even think to question herself. 

“Don’t you %&$#*@! dare,” she said, the grip around Margot’s wrist tighter than iron. The tremor in her voice was more frightening than the news she carried with her. Eliza’s emotions were an open book, and right now she was almost childishly afraid. “I didn’t run from the %&$@*! hospital to watch you die in front of me.”

When it became evident that Margot had no intentions of casting a spell, Eliza released Margot’s hand and slumped to the floor, still breathing heavily. “Gods, I hate running.”

She covered her head with her arms, and Margot didn’t know what to say. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Yes. Mostly,” Eliza said. “Ninety-five percnt. I need...I need another sample to confirm. Hospital wouldn’t give me one.”

“You’re not a blood mage,” Margot said.

“Isn’t blood magic. It’s magic that uses your blood. Not the same.” 

“Sounds like semantics,” Margot said, frowning. 

Eliza looked up at her, bone-deep weariness washing over her now that the immediate danger was past. “It really isn’t. I won’t touch blood magic. It killed my parents, killed that boy Inspector Briggs mentioned. Cursed me. Blood magic couldn't fix any of it, so I’m going to find another way. A _better_ way.”

“You’re Cursed?” Margot asked. 

“Emil didn’t tell you?” Eliza said. Her moment of vulnerability was gone, the hardness returning to her features as she struggled back to her feet. “Please, Professor. I heard what  you said to Fairchild. I know you don’t trust me, and I guess I don’t really care. But I _need_ this.” She rubbed her jaw again, grimacing. 

“I thought you were already dead,” she admitted. “You know how many mages use magic for stupid $&#@ that doesn’t even _matter?_ ”

“Guilty as charged,” Margot said, remembering her trick with the fog just a few days previous. It seemed like such a frivolous thing, a little bit of fun.

Killed for having a bit of fun. The part of Margot that wasn’t terrified at the thought was furious. 

“What will you be doing to me?” Margot said. “Why do you need more of my blood?”

“The samples you gave are already ruined. I couldn’t figure out what fouled them so quickly it until I saw those threats. The murderer is after mages, right? Then it makes sense to target their magic. I wasn’t allowed to see the other two at the hospital, but Master Stilwell pulled some strings so I could read their notes. The collapsed when getting their spellwork ready, and the healer collapsed after an extensive bit of casting.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Margot said. “I know for a fact Struttford brewed himself a little pick-me-up for that morning, and before he left dinner the night before O Cainin said he needed to tend his boats. I’m sure he cast spells for that.”

Eliza nodded eagerly. “I know, I didn’t understand either until Councilor Fairchild said the kid who died was friendly with Struttford. All this time I haven’t been able to figure out when someone cast on you. This is going to sound crazy, but did either of those two touch you with their magic?”

”Touch me...I mean, no? Not that I can think of,” Margot said.

”Think harder,” Eliza insisted. “It didn’t have to be much, any little bit would have done it.”

Margot drew a hand over her forehead, thinking back through all her interactions with the two men on the inspection team. “Once,” she said slowly. “When I first met Struttford he tried to zap me when shaking hands.”

Eliza’s expression was one of pure disgust. “Okay, then did he touch the other guy with a spell?”

”Yes. Yes he did,” Margot said, still not understanding where this was going. “When he spilled the wine and tried to clean it up.”

Eliza took a deep breath. She reached out again like she wanted to grab Margot by the shoulders and shake her, and again stopped halfway. Her eyes, normally kept at half-mast, were open so wide Margot could see white on all sides of her irises. 

“That’s it. That’s the point of connection. Maybe maybe the kid helped this Struttford idiot with his potion. Or maybe he just used a bunch of stupid spells when they were hanging out together, it doesn’t matter. Sophisticated Curses can have triggers built in, thresholds to meet before it activates. In this case, I think magic eats away at the outer, protective layers of the Curse like an acid while making it nearly undetectable, and once it’s released, _bam._ Heart attack. But that’s a much harder spell than crafting a Curse that works instantly, and I can only think of one reason why the @$$&*$# who did this would go through the effort.”

”He wanted it to spread,” Margot said, the bottom dropping out of her stomach. “Death to  _all_ mages.”

”This all started because of the Red Death. I think...I think whatever this isn’t just a Curse,” Eliza said. “It’s a &$#*@&! contagion spread through direct magical contact, aimed at the people they think is responsible. I just need to prove it.”

Her voice creaked with pleading, while Margot was amazed at how much she’d deduced on so little evidence. 

She wondered if she was going to regret her words to Osford’s mage’s council. She had made a grave mistake in misunderstanding how Eliza practiced magic and was likely to cause trouble to the school because of it. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to correct that mistake.

Slowly Margot extended a hand, and her trust. “I’m sorry for doubting you.”

Eliza didn’t look like she understood. “Yeah, well, don’t get sappy on me yet. I’ve not proven anything yet.”

She fumbled with her knife, biting back profanities when she nearly dropped it to the ground. Then she stopped to take a deep breath. Her hands shook. 

“You okay?” Margot asked. “You’ve used a lot of magic today.”

“I’ve not been okay in twenty years.”

She activated her protective spells and made a small cut at the base of Margot’s thumb. Blood welled at the wound and with a word floated into the air between them. Eliza’s spell came from her lips like an auctioneer’s chant, each syllable rolling together into nearly incomprehensible nonsense. 

Margot’s blood flashed, not with the red of Eliza’s spells but the aquamarine characteristic of her own magic. The effort made Eliza breathless, but she kept her gaze locked onto her sample. 

At once Margot’s blood lost its viscosity, clumping together into half a dozen tiny clots. At the sight of it Eliza swore, expression twisting into a hateful snarl. 

With another word the blood burst into a flash of brilliant flame and Eliza spun around, clutching at her head. 

“Eliza, honey,”  Margot said, forcing herself to keep calm. “While I get the impression that what just happened now probably isn’t good, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on. I’m not a blood mage, or a mage that deals with people’s blood, or whatever it is you’re doing right now.”

“I was right. Your magic is the trigger for the Curse. It’ll...it’ll take me longer to figure out the rest.”

Eliza slumped against the nearest wall, with barely the strength to keep standing. But her exhaustion didn’t dampen the vitriol that spilled out of her mouth, and while Eliza didn’t _shout,_ she _did_  go off on a tirade cursing (in the mundane way) whoever would create such a foul, evil spell. It was only because of Lyra’s influence that Margot recognized oaths from Elvish, Orc, and Dwarvish in addition to Common, as well as quite a few incoherent sentences that felt like they ought to be insults but were nothing but spitting fire without making much sense. Somehow Margot found a chair and slid down into it. She rested her arms on the little desk where her letter to Lyra lay. 

It seemed like she didn’t have to wait till morning after all. Forget revisions, Margot would have to rewrite the entire thing. 

And while Eliza ranted, she felt like she was floating on air, detached and lightheaded. Her magic. Someone was trying to kill her with _her own magic._ She crumpled the letter and threw it into the trash, anger burning through the worst of the fog. There was the catharsis of relief in knowing, the weight of uncertainty lifted from her shoulders.  But mostly Margot was furious . _Someone was trying to use her own magic to kill her._

Well, whoever the culprit was they had another thing coming, because Margot wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those darn curses, always ruining a nice evening in. I’ve had way too much fun designing this one, as well as the Red Death it was inspired from (also The Masque Red Death is apparently a Poe short story??? I had no idea). I don’t know what that says about me, and all I can say in my defense is I’m sorry that I relish in creating terrible circumstances for fictional characters to stumble through.
> 
> In any case, it feels good to have Margot finally have a dog in this fight. One of the hardest things when plotting this story is that it isn’t really Margot’s story at all, and because she isn’t a detective there has to be more of a reason to investigate other than, “Oh look, a bunch of people are being murdered! Let’s go check it out!” It feels good to finally have her personally invested. That makes writing a lot easier for me going forward because she has a clear direction. 
> 
> I also liked the idea of Margot not being able to use magic as a crutch this time around. There’s not going to be any compasses using people’s hair, or Second Sight leading her to hidden drawers in a desk. She’s got to truly think and act like a detective, which completely turns the student-teacher relationship she has with Dash on its head. 
> 
> All that to say, I’m looking forward to upcoming chapters. As always, thanks for reading :)


	12. The Impossible Geometry of Rend River Way

Margot’s righteous indignation didn’t last long. It couldn’t, as the magnitude of Eliza’s theory dawned upon her. She called it contagion, but disease was indiscriminant and random in who it targeted. This Curse, as Eliza described it, was a weapon. And it had already started its devastating attack.

“Have you told anyone else this?” Margot asked her. 

Eliza shook her head. She was still sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, and she appeared to be half asleep. There was a greenish tinge to her complexion, her breathing shallow and rapid. 

Margot rushed over to her. “Hey, are you alright? You’ve come into contact with my magic plenty today.” 

“M’fine,” she said. “Protective spells, remember? Just tired.”

“Self-induced magical exhaustion,” Margot corrected. She put her fingers to Eliza’s wrist and felt the rapid flutter of her pulse. It was high, but not dangerously so. She’d seen the same symptoms in enough students to know that with a day or two of rest she would be fine. The question was whether Eliza would do the smart thing and let herself recover from the day’s events. 

Margot got the feeling that she wouldn’t, and doubted that they could afford to lose her expertise. All the more reason to call in backup, so that she wouldn’t have to carry this burden alone.

“If you’re right, then there’s a chance that there are people out there with ticking time bombs in them and they don’t even know it,” Margot said. “That trick you just did, is that something other people are going to know?”

Eliza shrugged. 

“I’m going to make sure the Council knows about this,” Margot said. “They need to get the word out, put a moratorium on all magic until your theory can be confirmed.”

“You’re hilarious,” Eliza snorted. “Stop magic? In  _ Osford? _ The city would implode.”

“People are dying,” Margot said. 

Eliza pried her eyes open long enough to look at Margot with a flat look of disbelief. “People die every day. Trust me, they won’t stop people from casting. They can’t afford to.”

Margot straightened herself and marched to the door. “We’ll see about that.” 

There was a great deal of confusion going on outside of Margot’s room. Eliza’s theatrics caused enough commotion to draw every hotel employee and city official in the area to congregate in an exaggerated semicircle outside her door, where the wards placed to protect Margot kept them from going any further.

_ Interesting.  _ Margot made note of the ward’s construction, recognizing several components from spells she had used in the past mixed with others that were completely new to her. She would have to look it up when she had more time. 

Almost immediately she was bombarded with questions and demands for Eliza to show her face. The burly leader of the security team made himself useful, pulling Margot from the throng of people to the managerial office he had commondered for the night. 

“What in the nine hells is going on?” he demanded. “What were you thinking, bringing an unknown element past the threshold? That woman was deranged, it’s  our  _job_  to protect you, Professor, and we can’t do that if you interfere with our work.”

“You’re the one who let her past,” Margot pointed out. “And Eliza isn’t any more deranged than you or I. Can you please put me into contact with someone from the Council? Or whoever it is who’s in charge? I have important information for them regarding the case.”

The man crossed his arms across his ridiculously broad chest, unhappy at the thought of having his authority circumvented. “What is it? I’ll make sure it goes to the right people.”

Margot hesitated, Eliza’s warning ringing in her mind. Osford depended on magic more than any other place she knew. A wrong move here might incite panic in the public. So far the damage was contained to those connected to the water inspections; while there was risk, they had no proof that the Curse had spread any farther. 

Or had it?

It occurred to Margot that there could be other victims the city didn’t know about. People died of heart attacks all the time, and if someone outside the intense scrutiny of inspections happened to get infected, or targeted, or whatever it was that was going on, their death might be mistaken as natural. 

And those factories. Osford shipped enchanted goods all over the world. What happened if the Curse managed to hitch a ride up the river? It could be  _ anywhere.  _

Gods and goddess, the more Margot thought about it the worse the situation became.

“What did you say your name was?” Margot asked. 

“My name?” he parroted. “It’s Kennall. Seamus Kennall.”

“All right, Mr. Kennall, I’m going to be frank with you. I’ve just come across some information that’s above  _ both  _ our paygrades,” Margot said. “I need to send a message to the person in charge as soon as possible, in the most  _ direct  _ way possible. So please, humor me for a moment. What’s the name of the person in charge of this case?”

“I appreciate you concern, Professor, but you’re looking at him.” Kennall pulled a chain out from under the collar of his shirt. Accompanying the copper ring signifying him as a journeyman mage was a brass medallion three or four inches across, stamped with the police insignia for the city. 

“Now if you would humor  _ me,  _ Professor, what in the world is going on?”

 

* * *

 

For the second time that day, Dash was horribly lost. 

He felt bad about leaving the professor, but she had asked him to look out for anything unusual, and he was pretty sure that the sudden appearance of Julian Briggs qualified. The accusations he was slinging piqued Dash’s interest. They were so close to the questions pricking at the back of his mind, and he needed to know more. 

Briggs made his exit once people started laughing. Not from any personal humiliation, although that would have been perfectly understandable. Dash counted his lucky stars he was close enough to see the flicker of unsurprised disappointment on Brigg’s face as he rose to his feet and walked calmly toward the back exit. 

Dash didn’t have time to agonize over his decision. His instincts told him Briggs was important, so he followed, trusting the professor to be able to take care of herself. Once they were outside of the lecture hall, he called out, “Hey, do you got a minute?”

The former investigator turned. Dash saw him make a quick, appraising glance, eyes lingering on his oversized coat. Dash took his hands out of his pockets and held them up in a non-threatening manner. “Sorry to bug you, name’s Dashiell Cain. What you said in there, do you really think it’s true? Do you think Caldwell’s responsible for all this?”

“I know who you are, Detective,” Briggs said coolly. Despite his tone, his posture relaxed. “And I didn’t say Master Caldwell  _ did _ anything. I just don’t think it’s right for the circumstances surrounding her death to be swept under a rug because it’s inconvenient to certain parties. Don’t you agree?”

“How do you know who I am?” Dash asked.

The dying light caused long shadows to cross his face, darkening his smile. “We’ve already met. Don’t you remember?”

Dash’s brows furrowed together as he racked his mind for when he had possibly seen this man before in his life. It wasn’t on the boat ride over, or at the market. He cocked his head. “Were you handing out fliers today?”

“Close, but no. My baby cousin has got it in his head that he’s got what it takes to play in politics. I watch from behind the scenes to make sure no one stirs too much trouble for him,”

“I didn’t see you hanging around,” Dash said. 

“Most don’t. You, on the other hand, stuck out like an infected thumb.” His smile widened. “ _ I don’t know what a Class Three magical item is.  _ Classic, Mr. Cain, I haven’t laughed so much in a long time.”

Dash might have believed him if he thought for one second that Briggs were the laughing type. Not even his smile could lighten his expression, and he carried himself with the grim self-importance of a man on a mission.

“Yeah, well, honest mistake. But for curious minds, what made you bring up Caldwell in there?” Dash asked.

“That depends on who’s asking, Dashiell Cain or Lucinda Fairchild?”

Dash couldn’t help but stiffen a little at that. He immediately regretted it. Rule number one for detectives was not to give away what you knew, and he might as well blurted out for all the world that he was connected to the councilor. 

And it didn’t go unnoticed. Briggs gave a soft snort and turned away. “Let me show you something, Mr. Cain, that might make you reconsider your priorities on this case.”

He headed down the street and called a cab. Dash had to hurry to catch up. Any questions he had were shushed, smothering them into silence, the horseless carriage carrying them along faster than what he was used to back home. He had just enough time to second guess the intelligence of getting into a vehicle with a man he didn’t know when they came to a stop. By Dash’s estimation they’d gone a little more than half a mile south-east, towards the riverfront. A few blocks over factories billowed their noxious smoke into the air, marring the burnt orange and gold of sunset with black and grey and sickly green. 

Briggs pointed to a nearby fountain with no water running through it, the once pristine stone cracked and chipped, “Twenty years ago, that’s where they found the first body. Some two-bit mage with a garrote around his neck. He was known locally for upcharging the potions he sold by as much as one hundred percent. Before he died he decided the best way to slash costs was to skimp on ingredients, lessening effectiveness weeks before the Red Death started. No one thought anything of it. He was universally despised. I have on record his own children saying they didn’t care he was gone.”

They kept walking, deeper into a rundown, dilapidated neighborhood. The apartment buildings were so covered with soot that it was impossible to tell what color they’d been originally. The children Dash saw all went barefoot. Those who were older wore expressions that were hard, distrustful. Dozens of eyes watched them pass, discouraging Briggs and Dash from loitering in a dozen subtle ways. 

“The second body was found three blocks over,” Briggs continued undeterred. “Same MO: a small-time mage who took advantage of the poor strangled and left out as a warning to others. It didn’t seem all that important at the time, and with the Red Death starting its bloody trail at that same time no one really cared. Not until victim number three showed up where it did .”

“What do you mean?” Dash asked. 

“See that big building over there?” Briggs asked, pointing to a long, three story monstrosity made of corrugated tin and magic. Dash felt it before he saw it, that same, vaguely sick feeling he got when he first stepped into Osford making his stomach do an uncomfortable little jig against his ribs. 

“That’s the Night Market. They say if you can’t find what you need anywhere else, go to there. Body number three was strung across the front entrance a week after the Red Death claimed its first life. The deadman was no small fry, either. Man was a career criminal with a rap sheet longer than my arm, always used magic to wiggle his way out of trouble. It seemed he met his match with the Mage Killer.”

He sounded strangely satisfied when he said it. He gave Dash a kind of sideways glance out of the corner of his eye without turning his head, looking without looking like he was looking.  

“That’s what the locals called him, anyway. Mage Killer,” Briggs said. “Not the flashiest of names, I’ll admit, but it fit. By all accounts whoever did it managed those three murders without a hint of magic. Still, we probably would have found him if it weren’t for the Death. Suddenly a serial killer was the least of the city’s concerns. I was given nothing to work with, no resources, no people. That’s when I got into contact with a reporter by the name of Edwin Nightingale.”

Dash stepped around a crate of garbage someone had left outside the front of a small shop. “Any relation to a certain Eliza Nightingale?”

The farther they went the smaller everything seemed to become. Older, too. Dash got the feeling that this was the oldest part of the city, built before it had become a bustling center of trade or an important factory town. The streets were narrow and not always cobbled, buildings and people squished closer together. 

“Her father.” Briggs took on a pensive expression. “See, Nightingale’s wife was one of those Order mages. A healer. When things started getting bad,  _ really  _ bad, the city set up a quarantine and shipped healers in to try and fight it. Mr. Nightingale was worried that his wife was going to be in the same place as the Mage Killer. Came into my office and demanded to know why I hadn’t done a thing to stop it.” 

His smile returned, small and nostalgic. Coming to a slow stop, Briggs looked up at the darkening sky, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I liked Mr. Nightingale. I’m no mage, and neither was he. We understood one another that way, and once I explained what was going on he volunteered to help. Not necessarily with the investigation,” he added hastily, noticing Dash’s shocked expression, “But with the leg work, research and all that. He  _ was  _ a journalist, and as it turned out had some good instincts. I was desperate enough to say yes.”

Briggs sighed. “When I learned he’d been murdered...that it was partly my fault for getting him involved when all he wanted was protect his wife...I knew I couldn’t stay. The city said the investigation was closed, but I knew that wasn’t true.”

“And now you’re back,” Dash said. 

“I ran out of leads. Or rather, my best lead ended up dead. I’ve never seen a proper Curse up close until I came across that boy up north…” Briggs eyes went distant at the memory. He shook his head to rid himself of it, like a dog shook himself after jumping in a pond. “I thought it would be best to come back to where it all started. You see things differently after being gone so long. It’s like putting on a pair of glasses for the first time, clearer, almost.”

“How so?” Dash asked. 

“I’ll show you.”

Briggs took a sharp left down an alleyway, away from the Night Market. They emerged on the other side to a completely new world. 

That’s what it felt like, anyway. One minute Dash was following behind the ex-inspector, the next he felt like his insides were being pulled in all directions. There was a tension in the air, a weight that somehow left him breathless. A crooked street sign said they were on Rend River Way, but Dash wasn’t convinced he hadn’t been Teleported against his will to a different planet. 

The narrow streets were the same. There were old brick buildings that looked like they’d been constructed during a previous age. The smells of the river and nearby fish market saturated into the ground itself, permeating everything it touched. 

But it was all stitched together wrong, like edges of a quilt where the pattern hadn’t been followed. Bits of building stuck out in the air at odd angles, mezzanine in reverse, and the street twisted and pulled in impossible directions. There were places where it was thin like a piece of spaghetti being pulled through a pasta machine, compressed in others like a person trying to fit into a pair of pants two sizes too small. He could smell fish with his ears and taste the water with his eyeballs, and he wasn’t even sure how that was possible, except that it  _was._

Immediately disorientated, Dash stumbled like a drunkard to an overflowing gutter and emptied his stomach, nearly falling over when he hit a patch of air that was  _ empty.  _ He never knew air could feel that way before. 

“Careful,” Briggs said, his voice booming in Dash’s ear though he stood feet away. “The fabric of space-time has been worn thin. One wrong step and you might end up somewhere you don’t want to be.”

“Whu-what in the world is going on?” Dash gasped. 

“Magic. Improperly cast, ignored, left to fester and rot,” Briggs said. He stuck his hands back in his pockets. “See, the Red Death hit Rend River Way the hardest. Too many people in not enough space. So the Council decided to get rid of it all, raize it to the ground and start over again. Except no one wanted the poor people who would be displaced, so a brilliant solution was made: The School of Spacial Manipulation would  _ create _ room for them all using magic. Surely you’ve been to places like that in Kempeston, buildings that are bigger on the inside then they are on the out?”

“Sure,” Dash said gamely. “None of ‘em make me want to puke though.”

“That’s because they renew their spellwork.” Briggs came over and gave Dash a bracing pat on the back and half-drug him farther down the street. Deeper into the magic. 

“See, the Council subsidized the cost. They had to, or no school would touch the project. It took too much manpower, to many powerful spells. I hear it was a great success at first, a very popular program with the locals. But after the initial five year contract, someone decided that money could be better spent elsewhere, who knows where, and cut the funding to the project. The school refuses to renew the contract without being compensated as they feel they should, and negotiations stall. Meanwhile, the spellwork holding the entire district together starts to fall apart.”

Briggs turned down another street that impossibly led them back to where they started. “To avoid distaster the city has been forced to contract out the job piecemeal. No one in their right mind would agree to take on the whole project to fix things properly, even if the funding were secured. It’s too much of a mess, held together with the magical equivalent of spit and a prayer. You can imagine how the people living here think of the situation.”

Dash put his hands on his knees, fighting against the urge to be sick again. “Why are you showing this to me?”

“Because I want you to tell Lucinda Fairchild that her pool of suspects includes every man, woman, and child she and her council have wronged over the last twenty years, and if she wants to have any hope of getting to the bottom of this she needs to stop playing petty games and politics.Otherwise more people are going to end up hurt or worse.” His tone softened marginally. “Now come along, Mr. Cain, let’s get you out of here. I know it can be disorientating if you’re not used to it.”

“But--” 

Dash looked up, but Julian Briggs was already gone. It was like he’d vanished into thin air, and in the distance he could hear the sound of his finely polished boots against the cobblestone streets. This time when the bottom dropped out of his stomach, it had nothing to do with the impossible geometry of Rend River Way. Dark was coming, and he had no idea where he was supposed to go. Slowly Dash straightened to his full height, and he whispered to himself,

“Margot is going to kill me.”

* * *

Eliza was asleep when Margot returned to her room. She hadn’t moved from where Margot left her, her head tucked down against her chest and her shoulder slumped forward. Margot hesitated to wake her. Sleep was the best thing for depleted mage, and she got the impression Eliza didn’t get enough of it even on the best of days. 

A quick glance at the clock told her it was after midnight, and Margot wondered were Dash had gotten to. Under her tutelage his ability with magic had improved considerably, but he still lacked confidence in most of his spellwork. He wouldn’t try to contact her magically if he thought he could meet face to face, and of course it was now impossible for Margot to reach out to him.

The reminder of her handicap caused a pang in her chest, a feeling of loss and emptiness. Magic came to Margot easy as breathing. To have it suddenly taken away left her feeling strangely naked and certainly more vulnerable. She was suddenly thankful Lyra had taken it upon herself to make sure she knew how to throw a proper punch. 

Thinking of Lyra didn’t make her feel any better, so Margot pushed her from her mind and instead wondered what in the world she was going to do with Eliza. She didn’t get far when there was a soft  _rap_ at her door. 

“Professor Margot, may I come in?”

Margot recognized the voice of Master Stilwell and hurried to open the door. She looked half-asleep herself, almost unrecognizable dressed in a light cotton shirt and trousers instead of her normal scalpular. “Master Stilwell, what a surprise.”

”I was told Eliza was here?” she said wearily. 

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

Master Stilwell stepped past Margot without another word. As she knelt beside Eliza, Margot said, “I’m sorry for how tonight went.”

”It’s not your fault. Councilor Fairchild has wanted this for a long time.”

”But why?” Margot said. 

Master Stilwell sighed softly, a defeatist stoop to her shoulders. “It hardly matters now. I take it Eliza managed some kind of breakthrough?”

Briefly Margot explained Eliza’s theory. Halfway through Master Stilwell turned to face Margot properly, her eyes widening and a look of abject horror on her face. 

“She said she would need to do more testing to be sure,” Margot said once she finished. 

“You are being very calm about all of this,” Master Stilwell said. 

She shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t think it’s sunk in all the way. If Eliza’s right...it could be devastating.”

As if on cue, Eliza moaned in her sleep, her head rolling from her chest to her shoulder. Margot could see her eyes dart back and forth under her closed eyelids. Master Stilwell reached down and shook her shoulder gently. “Wake up, Eliza. It’s time to go home.”

It took several strong shakes before she woke, jerking so violently she cracked her head against the wall behind her. Eliza scrambled until her eyes found Margot, and she took a deep, shuddering breath. 

“You’re alive,” she breathed, grinding the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Thank the gods you’re still alive.”


End file.
